The Tortured Soul
by purpleygirl
Summary: What's worse than discovering you've someone else's soul instead of your own? What if it's that of your childhood enemy, James Potter? Harry and Snape each try to find out what's going on. Can they find a meeting point? AU Godric's Hollow. Set in 5th year. Gen.
1. What Happened to Listening at the Door?

**Author Note:** There is one Original Character in this - Flintoff - but he has one minor part in one scene only.

**The Tortured Soul**

_**by purpleygirl**_

'...my grief lies all within...  
[and] swells with silence in the tortured soul'

— _Richard II_

_**1. What happened to listening at the door?**_

Harry had been dodging Slytherins for what felt like hours as he waited in the torchlit dungeon corridor. The things he did for his friends. He had caved into Ron's pleas, but he wasn't the only one eager to know whether the rumours were true. Nearly the whole school was buzzing with the idea of Snape leaving.

Making sure the Invisibility Cloak was still securely round him, Harry pressed back into the wall opposite Snape's office as a few people passed. The jagged stone dug into his spine. He checked his breathing underneath the Cloak – just as someone nearly lurched right into him. More Slytherins comparing hexes as they went by. Harry was amazed the school's infirmary wasn't clogged up with them every day, if this was their idea of downtime. He jerked forward as an itching jinx glanced off the wall. It bounced away, hit one of the group, and they roared with laughter as their friend scrambled to reach around his back. 'Four to me!' one shouted, and they jostled him, the boy twisting and scratching at his robes and yelling obscenities, as they rolled off in the direction of their common room.

Harry sighed and settled against the wall next to Snape's door. This had better all be worth it. The dungeon was getting colder as the evening drew in, and damper. He was regretting having skipped tonight's Quidditch practice for this. And now another set of Slytherins sounded to be coming down the stone steps. He readied himself – and held his breath when he heard Lupin's low voice alongside the deliberate footsteps._ At last._ He tugged the hem of his Cloak tighter around him as Lupin, looking worn, came into view just behind Snape. They drew near.

'Let me make one thing clear, _Lupin_, I am not your _friend_ now,' Snape boomed as he unlocked his office with a flick of the wand. 'And I never was,' he said, flinging the door open and striding in.

Lupin stayed in the corridor looking in as though to enter would be entering a battleground unarmed. Harry eyed the distance he was giving the room, inviting him to take the chance Lupin was reluctant to. He couldn't do it, could he? Why not? He glanced in. It would be stupid to listen at the door, he thought as he looked back at Lupin wavering, and end up with only garbled words for his hour of dancing around Slytherins. At the very least it might be less bone-achingly cold and damp in there, and not as prone to passing hexes. His legs were restless, wanting to move – and then Lupin made the decision for him. He turned his hesitance toward the stairs, just for a moment. But it was long enough. Harry edged sideways, slipped around the doorway, and staked his life on the tall glass-fronted cabinet that looked down the room. His heart knocked on the unmoved wood.

Lupin came forward. He closed the door and kept it at his back. Standing only a foot from Harry, he was just as jittery; apparently he hadn't overcome all his doubts. But neither of them had seen Harry, and he released his breath. Now he wouldn't miss a thing.

Snape was a swarm of black robes at his desk. A difficult silence wove its way between them, building a web of three, with Snape at the apex testing it by snatching up parchments and thrusting them down in jagged piles. Harry was the first to give voice as he pleaded in his head, through the fury of pumping blood and shuffling papers, for one of the men to say something.

Then Lupin took a breath. 'Dumbledore told me you—'

'I don't want to hear it,' said Snape, shifting parchment around with greater determination. 'Perhaps – now I know I wasn't exactly myself when he fell – I may rejoin the Dark Lord after all.'

Harry saw Lupin blanch. 'You … you don't mean that.'

'Oh? But I have accumulated so much information over the years – I dare say he would find some use for it all. It would be the perfect gift for his return – and for his very generous act – don't you think?

There was a look of exaggerated triumph as Snape glanced up. It seemed to slide away easily on meeting Lupin's pale face, leaving a suggestion of self-disgust. Snape's gaze dropped to the papers in his hands; he tossed them onto the desk and slumped into his chair. 'I don't know what I think any more.'

As though this were his cue, Lupin moved from the doorway and sat opposite him, so that Harry now found himself looking at Lupin's back. 'If you want to talk, I'm here.'

Snape leaned away and swept his eyes over him. 'And that's why you are really here, isn't it? The interfering Headmaster at work again.'

'That's not fair, Severus. He's only trying to help.'

'Trying to cover his back, you mean. He knows if I left Hogwarts he would no longer be able to keep an eye on me.'

'He's worried about you. You're thinking about doing things that could get you into a great deal of trouble. You and I both know Voldemort wants you here, and if you left now … well, he wouldn't exactly be happy about it, would he?'

'If my well-being had truly been uppermost in Dumbledore's thoughts, he wouldn't have told me any of this in the first place.'

'Perhaps,' Lupin said, with a quiet inflection in his voice that suggested acceptance of Snape's statement.

But it must have shown clearly in Lupin's face, because Snape jumped on it immediately. 'And why are you suddenly concerned?' he said, and raised an eyebrow – Harry recognised it as mock surprise.

Lupin said nothing, his back stiffening, indicating he understood Snape's insinuation. After a moment Lupin bent his neck.

So the rumours were true! Harry swallowed carefully around the dryness in his throat, relieved his gamble was paying off. Lupin _was_ at Hogwarts at Dumbledore's request to talk Snape out of leaving. The entire school had been talking about little else for the last few weeks, captivated by the idea of a Snape-free year; but with Voldemort back, Harry knew better: Snape was up to something.

After a few tense minutes of silence, Lupin seemed to believe it better to change the subject. But the new subject was the last one Harry would have chosen. 'I ran into Harry earlier. He told me about recent Potions classes. He doesn't understand why you're … attacking James more. It's upsetting him.'

Snape snorted.

Harry's stomach lurched at Lupin's betrayal. It would make Snape's day to think he had got to him. Harry had no choice but to listen with a sick feeling as Lupin ploughed on. 'He doesn't understand, Severus. If you told him, then—'

'Tell him! Are you out of your mind?'

'It would make things easier—'

'For whom?'

'For both of you—'

'Plainly you have not thought this through.' Snape leaned forward so that he was staring Lupin in the face. 'Do you really think Potter would be pleased to know? That either of us would find our lives here easier? Think, Lupin.'

'He would need time, but… You can't keep this from him, not forever.'

Snape straightened. 'I can and I will. Harry Potter shall never know. His knowledge of this would achieve nothing.' He turned his head. 'And I could not bear the way he would look at me if he knew.' For a moment he stared at a spot on the wall as though his downfall could be read in it; he snapped his gaze away and sat back. 'Dumbledore has already sworn to me Potter shall never hear it from him,' he said with renewed confidence. 'And the few others who know … apparently it is inconsequential to them – they've most likely dismissed it already. Minerva does not know. Neither does Black. At least Dumbledore had the foresight for that. And you … now you know.' His glare became suspicious, challenging. 'But Potter shall never learn of it.'

'I won't go over your head about this. Harry won't hear it from me either. I appreciate it's your decision to make.'

'Good.'

'But pretending it never happened won't make it go away. Every time you see Harry…'

Snape groaned and dragged a hand through his greasy hair as though the sight of Harry was so offensive that he sought to rid himself of even the thought of it.

'But you can't leave Hogwarts,' said Lupin. 'You and I both know that. Not with Voldemort returned these last few months and Dumbledore reforming the Order of the Phoenix.' He ignored Snape's scowl. 'We all have a lot of work to do – we need to convince the Ministry to believe us when we say Voldemort has returned, for one thing. So the sensible thing would be to get this out of the way between you. Harry will understand in time.'

Snape's blazing distrust was not as easy for Lupin to ignore.

'I won't say anything. You know that. It's up to you.'

Snape's suspicion twisted into anger. 'So how do you suggest I should put it? Something like, "Ah, Potter?"' He turned and looked beyond Lupin at some imagined Harry, luckily standing at the other side of the door. '"By the way,"' he said lightly to the other Harry, who took his matching dislike in stubborn silence, '"your father James did not really die after all…"'

It was Harry's racing heart that first heard the words; it hammered for his attention. Adrenalin nipped the back of his throat as he saw Lupin's hands fly to the arms of his chair. 'Well, with a little more tact than that, perhaps,' said Lupin in a broken voice.

'Tact?' Snape looked disgusted. 'All the more reason why he is not to know, don't you think? Ever,' he added, punctuating the word by leaning back in his chair with a creak.

Harry's head swam as the words sank in. _Your father James did not really die after all._ He heard them over and over, his reasoning trying to find the explanation, the loophole in them. But there was none; though Snape had said them in obvious mockery to an imagined Harry, they seemed to be meant. Lupin's reaction said they were true.

And Snape had sworn he would never know.

Harry tried to steady his breaths. He had to calm down. If they found out he was there – if Snape was so determined for him not to know about this – who knew what he would do. The worst he could do was take the knowledge back somehow, with some horrible spell, make Harry carry on thinking his dad was dead… But he wasn't! His dad was alive! He wanted to shout it out. He felt like he had just made the greatest discovery in the world right here, right underneath his own father's Invisibility Cloak. And though that world had just expanded unimaginably, it now seemed to hang over a precipice.

He squeezed his eyes to shut out the room, and with a burst of fear stopped himself just in time from leaning on the cabinet. He focused on calming his excited breaths so they wouldn't give him away. What a stupid idea it had been, sneaking in here, right past Lupin. But then he would never have heard. His heart thumped again. His dad was alive – but he felt he didn't yet own this knowledge – not until he was free and far away from Snape.

He opened his eyes. Still sat at his desk, Snape was now bent over it, head in one hand. '…running out of Dreamless Sleeping Potion,' he heard Snape say. 'That blasted Headmaster,' Snape spat. 'Why? Why did he have to tell me? What good does it do?'

'Perhaps it may have been better if … if he hadn't.'

'Fourteen years – fourteen years I've been carrying it without my knowledge. Carrying it at no cost. And now Dumbledore seeks to change that.'

'He doesn't want to change anything – he just wanted you to know the truth. You know how he is.'

'Maybe I shall cast a Memory Charm on myself.'

'Severus – it was only discovered a few weeks ago. It will get better, trust me.'

'Oh – and you would know?'

'When I was bitten—'

Snape made a derisive noise. 'I hardly think turning into a werewolf each month is comparable with—'

'I have had to get used to being something I ought not to be because of the actions of one man,' said Lupin in a firm voice.

They seemed to try to outstare one another, then Snape looked away. 'I have classes to prepare for.'

Harry heard Lupin sigh and saw him move to rise from his chair. He got up slowly, heavily, as though he had been on his feet all day and was in need of a rest, and Harry began inching his way toward the door, bracing himself to slip out as soon as the first opportunity arose.

Snape was glaring at a shelf. 'Dumbledore thinks I'm to make the Wolfsbane Potion for you,' he said as Lupin pulled the door ajar. 'But there isn't a full moon for another ten days – I'm sure you know. You've had a wasted journey.'

Lupin had turned his face, so that Harry saw how far he seemed to have sunk within himself; he had never seen him look so tired. 'That's not why I'm here—'

'I _know_.' Snape closed his eyes and let out an irritated sigh. 'Would that there were a similar potion I could take,' he said, and he produced a horrible, strangled noise in his throat.

Lupin opened his mouth, but seemed lost. As Harry edged his way out of the room, he glimpsed his curious expression: a kind of fearful concern. 'We'll talk again soon, perhaps?' he said. Harry didn't catch Snape's reply.

Flat against the wall by the door, he felt the reverberation as Lupin closed it and then watched him depart down the corridor. He listened, rapt, to the thrumming in his chest as the echoes of Lupin's footsteps faded. He was aware his back was damp – he was leaning against the dungeon wall but couldn't be certain whether it was simply the lake water leaching through.

It took several moments to persuade his feet to return him down the familiar route to Gryffindor Tower. It was only then he dared hear his own voice whisper to the empty common room: 'My dad's _alive_.'

-x-

The night was excruciating. It had been later than he'd thought when he'd got back to the dormitory; Ron was already in bed, and he'd nearly tripped over his muddy Quidditch kit. He couldn't rouse him enough to persuade him to the privacy of the common room, and Harry didn't get a wink of sleep. But he must have nodded off before morning came, because the sun was shining on Ron's empty pillow, and Harry faced another tortuous wait as he hurried down to the Great Hall.

He found him down the far end of the Gryffindor table. It was busy; he took the seat next to Hermione, but she was deep in conversation with Parvati Patil. Ron, opposite, was listening to Dean while chomping toast. Harry didn't feel like eating, though he poured a goblet of pumpkin juice and found he was thirstier than he thought.

Parvati was getting up to leave, and Hermione turned to him. She paused – his sleepless night must have been showing. 'Are you all right?' she said.

'We need to talk,' he whispered.

She looked solemn, and glanced at Ron, who was busily obeying the demands of his appetite after last night's Quidditch practice. 'Is this about yesterday?' she asked, leaning toward him so the others wouldn't hear. 'What did you find out?'

'Not here.'

She watched as he poured himself another pumpkin juice. 'Aren't you eating anything?'

'I'm not hungry.'

'So, Harry – how'd it go?'

He looked up from his goblet at Dean – Ron, chewing less eagerly, had also turned his attention his way. 'What?' said Harry distractedly, his thoughts on getting Ron and Hermione somewhere quiet so he could share his news.

'Last night – did you find anything out about Snape—' Dean glanced up at the High Table, but Snape wasn't there. 'Is he leaving, or what?'

'Yeah,' put in Seamus, 'I heard Lupin's here, isn't he?'

'Harry said Dumbledore called Lupin here yesterday,' said Dean, sounding pleased to know more about it than Seamus. 'He saw him arrive – and he heard Dumbledore ask him to help talk Snape out of leaving, didn't you?'

It felt like a hundred years ago to Harry. 'Yeah – I mean – Lupin's not staying, he's just visiting for the Wolfsbane Potion – and Snape's not leaving.'

'Ah, for —' Ron swallowed the last of his breakfast. 'Well, that's just great, isn't it?' He sat back and fingered his left arm through his robes. Harry knew what was coming next. Dean also seemed to know. He was already looking down at his plate to hide the smirk. 'Dumbledore's got a lot to answer for. So's Lupin.' Ron shook his head, then finally pushed up his sleeve and announced, 'Still there.' Dean focused on slowly refilling his goblet.

'It's just a freckle, Ron,' said Hermione with the same sort of patience Harry often heard from Molly Weasley when talking to one of her children.

Ron's face went red, as though his very freckles were outraged by her dismissal. 'It's not just a freckle. It's a bruise, anyone can see that. All right – maybe it's gone down a bit since the git grabbed me. But the evidence is there. Can't deny what he did.'

'No, I'm not. Of course I'm not. He hasn't been nice to anyone lately—' Dean sent her a look of incredulity, perhaps wondering when Snape had ever been nice. 'Look,' she pressed on, 'maybe Professor Snape will be back to normal now after talking to Lupin, about –' she glanced at Harry, obviously curious about his desire to talk privately '– whatever.'

'Normal? Fantastic,' said Ron. 'Looking forward to that.'

Hermione gave him a look. 'He's been worse to Harry – worse than usual. Gryffindor's never lost so many points so early in the year before. It's been awful for everyone. So let's hope things change,' she said, turning to Harry.

He hoped so too. He couldn't bear the thought of the rest of the year's Potions classes being just the same – Snape zoning in on him right from the start, bursts of anger over the smallest of mistakes – made worse of course because of his efforts to get it right and avoid these clashes – followed by extended tirades about how much he resembled his big-headed, lazy, foolhardy father. Ron had lost his temper last week and earned a swift exit for his mumbled 'git'.

But it would be so much harder now he knew that … that his dad was alive.

His head felt light just thinking it. He needed to find a quiet moment so he could tell Ron and Hermione. But the table was already clearing, showing a line of miserable faces as the bad news sank in: the rumours about Snape leaving Hogwarts had finally been quashed.

'Well,' said Hermione when they were at last outside. Harry led them to a nearby tree, the early November wind whipping about their robes as they walked. 'I think it's probably a good thing Professor Snape's not leaving – not with You-Know-Who back.'

'Says you,' said Ron, slumping against the wide trunk of the tree as it threw down a brown leaf onto the mottled grass at their feet.

'My dad's alive.'

They both turned to him.

'I heard Snape say it,' he said to their blank faces, 'inside his office – to Lupin.'

'You were _inside_ Snape's office?' Ron straightened up, and Harry felt somewhat annoyed that it was this that had got his attention. 'That's brilliant. How'd you manage it?'

'But – your dad?' Hermione was studying him. 'How—?'

'I don't know how. I just know it's true.' His mind went back to last night. 'D'you think they've known all along?'

'But – wait – what happened, what did Snape say exactly?'

He heard Snape's mocking words again. 'He said, "Oh, Potter, your father James didn't really die after all".' He couldn't help repeating them with something of Snape's unique bitterness.

'I don't get it,' said Ron. 'He saw you?'

'He was pretending I was there, taunting me – he kept saying to Lupin over and over that he'd never tell me, making him promise not to as well. What's Snape got to do with this anyway?'

'But, Harry,' said Hermione, showing none of Harry's desperation, only a quiet concern. 'How can your dad really be alive after all this time?' Her voice lowered to a hush. 'They found his body.'

'I don't know. All I know is Dumbledore and Lupin swore they'd never tell anyone – including me. And everyone else thinks he's dead.' Since last night, Harry had been floating on the excitement of all the possibilities that had opened themselves up to him. But now that excitement gave way to worry, and anger – why had this been kept from him?

'It just seems so – _unlikely_.'

'I heard him say it! They're keeping it from everyone!'

'But why would they—?'

'I don't know! Why don't you ask them!'

'So where is he, then?' asked Ron. 'Your dad? If he is alive,' he added at Hermione's sharp look.

Harry thought through what he'd heard. But there was nothing. 'They didn't say anything. But Snape's got a hold over everyone. He knows something.' He felt a chill of worry. 'If Snape's at the centre of this somehow … he hates him, he can't stand the thought of him being alive…' His mind spun; he had never felt so frustrated.

'Harry, please, we have to think about this rationally,' said Hermione, and Harry could hardly understand how she could stay so calm. 'What about what you saw this summer? When You-Know-Who… The Priori Incantatem?'

'Oh, that. Well, there's got to be some other explanation for that, hasn't there?'

She didn't offer any. 'What happened to listening at Snape's door?' she said.

'Good thing I didn't, or I might never have heard.'

'But you were taking a risk… What on earth made you go inside?'

'I dunno, I just did.' He was getting nowhere with these questions. 'But I'm glad, or I wouldn't have found out my dad's alive.' He thought he would never tire of saying those three words, and the thrill they sent; it cut through his anger, and he kneaded his head around his prickling scar. 'Aren't you? Aren't you glad I did?'

'We are,' Hermione said, and she made an effort, her face opening a little to reflect some of his joy. 'Of course we are. But – if… what Snape said is true—'

'It is! He said it!'

'All right, but… then we need to find out where he is, don't we?'

'Maybe your mum's alive too?' said Ron, his eyes wide with some of Harry's hope.

But Harry had already considered this wonderful possibility last night as he had thought of what he had seen in the Mirror of Erised. 'It's her blood magic protects me,' he said, and he was cast down all over again, descending with the loss of something he had never had. 'She must have died. It was her death that saved me from Voldemort's Killing Curse.' With the promise that one half of his greatest desire would soon be fulfilled, he had naturally wanted the other half with it – but he had only succeeded in earning a sharp kick of guilt at his unreasonable greed.

They stood in silence. Classes would be starting soon, but Harry was in no hurry to go back inside; the twisting breeze matched his restless thoughts. 'D'you think,' said Hermione after a moment, 'it's something – something to do with You-Know-Who?'

'How d'you mean?'

'Well, I was just thinking… the timing… with You-Know-Who coming back and the Order of the Phoenix reforming, now Snape saying this—'

'You think Voldemort's got him?'

'What?'

She was shocked, but it made perfect sense to Harry. Why else would Snape know about this? 'Snape said he wished Dumbledore hadn't told him something. Maybe Dumbledore found something out and then forced the truth out of him. They made it look like he'd died – that's got to be it. Snape and Voldemort. And then… What if he was tortured like Neville's parents? What if he's in St Mungo's and no one knows who he is? What if he's in Azkaban – Snape'd love to put him there, like Sirius. Or some Death Eaters are holding him—?'

'Harry!' cried Hermione desperately. 'Even if – even if Snape knew about it, it doesn't mean he's in trouble.'

'If my dad was all right, he'd have tried to contact me, wouldn't he?'

'Well… but if Dumbledore knows, and Lupin, then they wouldn't let anything bad happen to him.'

'But they only know _now_. Snape's just told them _now_, because Dumbledore made him. And why won't Snape let them tell anyone else? Why doesn't he want me to know? Don't you see? Snape's got everyone wrapped round his little finger.' An image of the greasy-haired professor sneering with satisfaction at having kept the truth from him swam into his mind. He had imagined him drowning in his own cauldron often enough, but right now he would give all his gold from Gringotts to see it for real. 'And Dumbledore trusts him!' He clenched his teeth. 'I hate him.'

'Yeah, me and you both, mate,' said Ron. 'You've got to see someone about this. Dumbledore or Lupin. Never mind Snape – they've got to tell you – he's your _dad_.'

Harry shook his head. 'They won't, I know it. Snape's convinced them all my dad'll be safe as long as no one else knows the truth.' He had a terrifying thought. 'Maybe they're scared of what Snape'll do to him.'

'Look, Ron's right,' said Hermione. 'You've got to find out what's really going on. It's going to eat you alive if you don't. I'm sure your dad's okay – but you'll just carry on thinking the worst unless you find out.'

'But how?' He lifted his shoulders in defeat. 'And what if something really bad happens to him when they find out I know?' He looked to the castle and shook his head. 'If he hasn't tried to contact me in all these years, then what can I do? I can't risk doing any more sneaking or searching around. I might just end up getting him into even more trouble.'

Ron and Hermione traded looks of anxiety as they stood in contemplative silence. Harry's powerlessness to help his father left him with a hollow feeling deep inside, as though something had been gouged out from his belly. He wondered if this was what it felt like to worry for a parent, to grieve for a parent. His head was still light from lack of proper sleep, thoughts teeming freely, refusing to obey his weary need to know the truth. All the increased taunting from Snape over the past weeks made sense now – he must have been furious when Dumbledore had forced him to come clean on what he knew about James.

But Harry wasn't going to stand by and do nothing – he swore he would find a way to make sure his father was safe; he would not allow Snape to continue keeping the truth from him. Whatever it took.

-x-

It was the first time Snape had been in Dumbledore's office since discovering in this room what had happened to James Potter. He glanced at the cabinet where – _was it just sixteen days ago? It felt longer_ – Dumbledore had brought out the two glass jars containing samples of magic, one of which was his. Except that it wasn't.

'Did you see Remus?'

Snape turned to Dumbledore, sat at his desk, eyes moving over a parchment from a pile in front of him.

'Oh, yes, Dumbledore. Indeed.'

'Excellent. It's kind of you to agree to make the Wolfsbane Potion again for a while. I hope he'll suffer less.'

Snape set his mouth; he was in no mood to humour him in his schemes. What had the meddling Headmaster imagined, bringing the werewolf here? He could not think of James Potter and Remus Lupin together without seeing Lupin's turned head on the perimeters of Black and Potter's attacks. It was an association fixed in eternity. The werewolf's presence only served to remind him of why he poured hatred on his memories of James Potter, the man who had played with lives to massage his already overblown ego. With jaw fixed, he watched Dumbledore set aside the raft of parchments.

'And have you had the chance to reconsider your position here?'

Snape scowled freely. Dumbledore knew he had not been serious about leaving the school. He had wanted to be rid once and for all of the boy who had his father's face... But he had not been thinking straight. Perhaps he should have demanded the Defence Against the Dark Arts job in return for staying. 'As you well know, I cannot leave with the Dark Lord now risen again. He expects me to remain here as spy.'

'Well, of course. Good.'

Snape scanned the portraits on the walls – most were in some other picture or napping in their painted chairs, just as they had been two weeks ago. It was extraordinary how much they managed to sleep through in this office. It had been just beneath the empty frame of Phineas Nigellus that Dumbledore had shown him his little test. Fawkes on his nearby perch had flapped his wings, disturbing the dusty air, as Dumbledore had first set down onto the cabinet the results he had gleaned from the secret test he'd done earlier. Done on Snape's own magic – what he had thought was his own.

'I expect you called me here for a reason?' said Snape, turning back to Dumbledore, who had put out a hand towards an open box of sherbet lemons. 'Perhaps another revelation – have you discovered some other piece of me that is not mine?'

Dumbledore's fingers glided higher to the lid and brought it closed. He folded his hands and gave him his attention. 'I'm sure the rest of you is firmly yours, Severus. No, I do wish to ask something of you. But I will get to that. First, you – how are you feeling?'

'I have never felt better. There is nothing quite like discovering one's soul is not one's own but that of a person one loathed.'

Dumbledore gave a little cough, to Snape's satisfaction. 'You know it will take time.' But it seemed the topic of Snape's welfare was a brief one. 'Yes,' said Dumbledore with sudden gravity, signalling a return to the previous subject, 'we must be vigilant with Lord Voldemort among us again.'

'Vigilant – yes. We must avoid occurrences like last year with the Mad-Eye Moody that wasn't, mustn't we? Such as by taking samples of the staff's magic for the school records?'

Dumbledore refused to look away. 'You know I had to be sure. Would you have wanted to go through the test without my being certain of the result first?'

'I thought the Death Eater who'd witnessed it all had confirmed it under Veritaserum?'

'Yes, he did.' Dumbledore sighed and removed his glasses. He gazed at them for a moment, before putting them back on. 'I am sorry for misleading you on the purpose of the sample. But not for informing you of the truth.'

'Really? I still don't see what good it does, my knowing. Nor, indeed, what difference any of this makes.'

'It is the truth – and I find the truth has a habit of coming out sooner or later – usually under worse circumstances.'

'Do you still have it in there? Your little test?'

Dumbledore's silence said it all.

'Maybe in case I have doubts? Then why not put our minds to rest and run it again?'

'There is no need…'

'Oh, but I insist.' Snape rose so he no longer had to see the disinterest in Dumbledore's surprise. He strode to the cabinet and opened it without waiting to hear his reply. There they still were, at the edge of the second shelf. 'What do you say, Dumbledore,' he said, turning with his hand on the door, 'fourth time lucky?'

Silence for a moment. Then: 'Very well,' and he moved his chair back, his face stolid, and beneath it Snape knew he was finally taking him seriously. 'If you are certain you want it. But after this – no more.'

It was a simple thing, taking a sample from a wizard's magical core, though Snape had never witnessed it being done before last month. There was little use for it – unlike containing someone's memory in the hopes of obtaining valuable information, having a sample of someone's magic merely meant one had his magical signature on hand, should it be needed. Such as for a test.

Now he had Dumbledore's full attention, Snape felt little enthusiasm for repeating this thing. But Dumbledore was taking out one of the bottles, leaving behind the other, which bore his name on the glass –_ an irony indeed_ – and setting it on top of the cabinet just as he had done two weeks ago. And just as then the portrait above that normally contained Phineas Nigellus looked down vacantly. Snape got out his wand and pointed it a foot above the bottle.

Dumbledore checked Snape was ready, and touched the stopper. As soon as it was removed, the magic crept out, its yellowish hue, faint from being spread out greedily in the bottle – little was left of it now since their previous three tests, and Dumbledore's secret one before that – deepened in colour as it conspired at the neck.

'_Subcriptio_.' From Snape's wand issued a matching gold, its thin strand breaking free. It floated forward and down, inching closer. It seemed to take an age, then as now.

In days past it might have curled around a roll of parchment – a more reliable seal for important documents than the Muggles' use of candle wax – or leave a stain of gold – the family gold – beneath an inked signature.

But today the strands found no paper targets. Instead, as though sensing a fellow wanderer, their movements changed, at first subtly.

Unlike strands would repel, as though nobles of different houses racing past one another in joust, sparks flying where violent contact was made.

But not today. Today they recognised a member of the same paternal house – the Potter house. They greeted with strong embraces. The threads of magic wound around one another as they passed, weaving together with increasing speed, with an eagerness that was almost obscene at one another's touch, curving upward under the combined momentum, until they were a single golden cord rising to the ceiling victorious. The Potter line, united.

Snape replaced his wand and let Dumbledore deal with clearing it all away. He retook his seat and waited. A moment later, after the soft thud of the cabinet door, Dumbledore was back behind his desk. 'So, you said you wanted to ask something of me?'

Dumbledore did not answer straight away. 'Yes,' he said, seeming to consider the question. 'The Ministry is still denying Lord Voldemort's return.'

'What more is there to be done?'

'I'm sure something will come up. But there's been something…' He paused, then looked across at a table on which was a wind-up clock that appeared to have stopped and several silver instruments whirring softly. 'I'm late for my meeting with Fudge.'

'He's been expecting you?'

'No.' Dumbledore smiled and rose. 'Walk with me downstairs?' Snape followed as he retrieved his travelling cloak from the stand. When they were in the corridor, moving out of sight of the gargoyle, he said, 'Harry's scar has recently been hurting him more. Since Voldemort's return, in fact.'

'Really?' For Potter there was now the threat of losing all the attention he had carefully built up over the years. If the Dark Lord were revealed, all eyes would move to him, and Potter would find no one to pay heed to his sulking.

'It's more than coincidence. There is something behind it … a change in him. I fear Voldemort has already begun seeking to influence him through their link.'

'The Dark Lord has better things to do with his time.'

'Perhaps. But perhaps he doesn't quite share your certainty.' They came to a stop at the head of the marble staircase. The entrance hall below was empty, and silent but for the sound of distant footsteps as someone moved from one room to another. Most of the students were back in their respective common rooms after dinner. Dumbledore turned to him. 'Which is why I wish you to teach Harry Occlumency.'

'What? Me?'

'Perhaps you could begin as soon as possible?'

'Yes, why not now? I'm sure I'd like to see what pudding he had tonight. On the floor as well as in his head.' He hunted through Dumbledore's framed expression for the sign he was merely being played with. 'I see the value in it. That is, if Potter has the capacity. Which he won't, given his mediocrity in everything else. But – if you think it wise to try it – wouldn't the boy learn better with you as his instructor?'

'I've noticed in him certain feelings of aggression toward me, something within him seeking an opportunity to attack.'

Snape could hardly blame the boy for that. He had felt much the same since Dumbledore had told him the fate of Potter senior.

'I fear Voldemort is behind it. It means there is little chance of him learning anything useful from me. Which is why you would be the better teacher. In addition to your excellent skills in the art, of course.'

Snape ignored the strategically placed praise and the amiable smile accompanying it, his mind instead working in search of a reason to get out of teaching the Potter brat. 'Dumbledore. With what has recently transpired … Potter's father … it would create difficulties – surely you see that?'

'Harry is not James.'

There were no words for this. Snape could feel a headache coming on – but better that intractable heat than the cool arrangement of thoughts that would spell out the inference that followed from Dumbledore's simple statement.

'Good,' Dumbledore said before Snape had time to think further. 'So do please inform the boy when his first lesson will be.' He turned and seemed to spring down the stairs as though he'd just remembered where he'd put a favourite pair of socks, cheerily greeting a passing student. Snape seethed at the girl, and wondered whether it would not be preferable to reconsider his position at Hogwarts, and risk the Dark Lord's wrath after all.


	2. Restored to Life

_**2. Restored to life**_

'Hey, Harry.' Neville leaned across the Gryffindor table with a skewered sausage on his fork. 'You going to the library tonight to do some OWL studying?'

'Erm, no, I can't. I've got, um … to see Snape.' Harry kept his eyes on his plate.

'What for?' Neville took a bite. 'You didn't get detention again?'

'Um … no. I've got, er…' He glanced along the table. 'I've got remedial Potions,' Harry whispered.

Neville stopped chewing. His eyes widened with wonder and – Harry thought – unease. 'Boy, I didn't know you were that bad.'

Harry felt horrible he couldn't tell him the real reason for his extra lessons with Snape. Neville was picking at his food worriedly. Since it was him who ruined the most potions on a regular basis, Harry imagined he must be terrified Snape might decide he also needed one-on-one Potions tuition. Neville would probably have nightmares for weeks.

He forced down his guilty sympathy and stuffed his mouth with potato. He had only told Ron and Hermione the extra tuition was to teach him Occlumency. He didn't want to tempt Snape's fury. Those private lessons were bad enough as they were.

He'd had three over the last couple of weeks, but it wasn't getting any easier to clear his mind. The overwhelming distrust he now felt around Snape wasn't nearly as comforting as the hate he'd nurtured for him over the years. Just the thought, never mind the sight, of Snape triggered visions of the horrific things his dad might be going through, the dreadful places he was being held against his will, and images of him lying in a hospital bed somewhere not knowing he had a son, or even who he was himself.

He did his best to push them away. Snape was relentless in rifling through his memories. It was as if he was deliberately not telling him how to do this Occlumency thing properly. Watching Snape view every personal and private thing, both with the Dursleys and at Hogwarts, then enduring his ugly sneers, was humiliating. But it would be a disaster if he found out he knew his dad was alive. He might never see him again.

He saved up until night his daydreams about seeing his dad. Bedtime usually began with a brief period of irritation when he remembered Snape's instruction he clear his mind before sleep – and then he put thoughts of Snape aside for better things.

Now Dumbledore and Lupin had found out the truth, they would make sure his dad was safe and well, he was certain of it. And they would find a way for him to make contact with his son.

He had never really known his father. He only had the still-new feeling instilled by Sirius to go on when it came to family. But that was surely nothing compared to what it would be like when he and his dad were finally reunited. He could barely imagine it.

Still, he tried to, every night. And he would until the day it became real.

But in the meantime he had the continued mental torture of private lessons with Snape.

'I feel sick at the end of every session,' he told Hermione between classes when she asked how his Occlumency was going.

'Well, you've only had them for a few weeks,' she said. 'And you should practise like Professor Snape tells you to.'

'It's not that. It's with all the tension of knowing he knows exactly where my dad is – and trying to keep those kinds of thoughts out of my head in case he sees them. And they're just like Potions classes – every time he takes a stab at me or my dad, I just want to throttle the truth out of him.'

If he could practise drifting off to sleep with a clear mind, maybe he would find it easier to shove Snape from his head during those lessons; but he could as much let go of his fantasies about his dad as he could his hate for Snape.

Still, the odd thing was, though he fell asleep dreaming of such things as standing with his dad cheering on the Chudley Cannons, he sometimes woke to very different visions.

'I've been having these weird dreams recently,' he told Hermione as they walked across the grounds to Care of Magical Creatures, 'where I'm in a really creepy place – like a house.' He hung his head in thought. 'It's strange, because in my last lesson with Snape, I cast a Shielding Charm when he used Legilimency and I actually broke into his thoughts for a second. Maybe that's what that place is all about – what if those dreams are something to do with the Legilimency he's doing on me? Maybe it's where my dad is.' He let out a frustrated breath. 'If only I knew where it was.'

'Sounds a bit too vague to me,' she said, her brows furrowed. 'And it's not like you actually saw your dad in his thoughts, did you?'

The only person he had seen in Snape's head he had recognised had been the strange little boy who had cried as his parents argued.

'So you don't know that's where he is,' said Hermione. 'I mean, you're trying your best not to think about your dad when Snape's looking at your thoughts – that'll be what he's doing too.'

'Yeah, I suppose. He puts some of his memories in Dumbledore's Pensieve before every lesson so I can't see them. I'll bet at least one's about where my dad is…' He stopped, thinking furiously. He was mad at himself for not considering this before.

'I don't think I'm going to like this somehow,' said Hermione, pulling back to where he stood in contemplation.

'If I can get Snape out of his office in tonight's lesson…' He pictured his plan. 'It'll give me the chance to take a quick look in the Pensieve at one of his memories.'

'You don't know for sure he put—'

'Hermione, one's bound to be about my dad – Snape'll do anything to stop me finding something out.'

'Well…'

Though she looked uncertain, Harry wasn't going to let her give up so easily. With Lupin and Dumbledore apparently sworn to secrecy, this could be the only way to find out where his father was. 'So, if you and Ron can create a diversion tonight…'

'Oh…'

'Please, Hermione?'

'Well… You know you'd have to be really quick? I mean, Snape's bound to be suspicious of you, isn't he?' She hesitated, taking a moment to study him with concern, then sighed. 'I'll think of something,' she promised reluctantly.

He grinned in relief. 'Thanks, Hermione.'

That evening he found himself once again on the dusty floor of Snape's office, thinking he was getting rather familiar with the stains there and their various shades of black from years of potions and who knew what else.

'That dog again? Get up, Potter. Let's start over.'

His head spinning, Harry tried to focus on where the ground was beneath his hands. 'I need a break,' he said hoarsely as he heaved himself up.

'Funny, I don't believe the Dark Lord allows for tea breaks.' Snape pointed his wand as Harry got to his feet. 'One … two—'

'Stop!' Snape and his wand were swaying. That really wasn't normal.

'Extraordinary.' Snape lowered his arm as Harry leaned on a nearby chair. 'All those years of training my mind from intrusion, when a simple demand for a reprieve would do. Why didn't I think of that before – I could have saved myself years of time and effort.'

Harry dug his fingers into the back of the chair and glared at Snape while his wand was still down.

'Why don't you just admit it, Potter? You are not practising like I told you to! I would have thought emptying your mind would have been an easy task – you're always at least halfway there already in my classes.'

'I'm trying,' Harry said through gritted teeth.

Snape sneered. 'Yes, you are – _very_ trying.'

He was raising his wand again, and Harry hurriedly pushed out all thoughts on what Snape might know about his dad's whereabouts and forced himself to focus instead on the Dursleys. Maybe he was overdoing Aunt Marge's dog. It was just easier to concentrate on such a reliable event that didn't feature a Dursley directly. But it wasn't as if he had a shortage of other memories Snape would be satisfied with. Dudley making him stand in the toilet, the spiders in his cupboard… He broke out in another sweat, his heart pounding as he met Snape's sour gaze.

'Let's hope for your sake I don't see the dog again, Potter. After three—'

Before he could start counting down, the door burst open, spilling the bulky form of Crabbe into the room.

'Sir,' he said around quick, rasping breaths, 'Draco.' Crabbe, who hadn't noticed Harry, and was a person of few words at the best of times, appeared about to dash out again before he'd explained what the matter was.

But Snape didn't seem particularly worried. He looked more inconvenienced than anything else. 'Potter.' He turned stern black eyes to Harry. 'We shall resume from this point next lesson.'

As Crabbe darted out into the corridor, Snape added quietly but forcefully, 'And make sure you practise clearing your mind!' At that, he turned and followed Crabbe, dark robes billowing.

Harry slid to the doorway and listened to Snape's echoing voice probing Crabbe as their footsteps receded down the corridor.

Turning to look at the soft shimmer on Snape's desk, he hoped this was the diversion Hermione had promised him. He carefully closed the door and took a decisive step toward the Pensieve, its contents summoning him like a beacon in the murky dungeon.

-x-

It was Hermione who spotted him first as he entered the library afterwards. She placed her book down on the table and fixed a questioning look on him as he drew a seat next to Ron, slumped behind a Quidditch manual. 'Well?' she asked.

Ron straightened as he sank into the chair. Both quickly caught on to his disappointment. 'You didn't see your dad?' said Ron.

'I saw him,' said Harry, not feeling ready yet to meet his or Hermione's concerned gaze.

'And?' pressed Ron.

Harry shrugged. 'He'd just finished his Defence Against the Dark Arts OWL exam.'

Ron's expression twisted into one of confusion, but Hermione seemed to understand. 'You saw him when he was at Hogwarts?' she asked.

He nodded, still refusing to look either in the eye. What he had seen hadn't been what he had expected. Not at all. He still didn't know what to make of it, ten minutes after he had exited Snape's memory and office unseen.

'So you're still none the wiser,' stated Ron.

Harry sighed; he hadn't been able to see anything that could have given him the remotest idea of where his dad was. Once in Snape's memory, he had been transfixed with being so near to his dad – amazed he had looked so much like him when he had been his age – and seeing him with Sirius, Lupin – and even with a young Wormtail. And his mum, with her auburn hair caught by the summer's breeze, facing off to his father by the lake's edge. 'I only had time to see one memory. Didn't see that house.'

'What house?' asked Ron.

'Oh, just a dream I've been having. Probably nothing.'

'Dream? So why'd you expect it in Snape's memory?'

Harry didn't really know – but the dreams had started around the same time as Occlumency lessons.

'Maybe he planted it in your head,' said Ron when Harry told him this. 'Just to give you nightmares.'

'I don't see why he'd do that, Ron,' said Hermione. 'What reason could he have to do that?'

'Because he hates Harry. What other reason does Snape need to do anything?' He shook his head as though despairing at her faulty logic.

Harry was back in Snape's memory, hearing his dad shout, 'Who wants to see me take off Snivelly's pants?' and the answering yells, his father's feral grin, and then…

'Look, why don't I try my dad—'

'No!'

'Shhh!' The shrill voice of Madam Pince cut through the room, her stern features staring them down. A group nearby who had been happily whispering across their table now seemed to be trying to disappear into their seats.

Ron pretended to have his nose in his book. 'Why not?' he muttered, eyes following Pince's suspicious gaze. 'They might know something…'

'I don't want this to get out. What if he doesn't know anything? You can't go round asking about someone who's supposed to have been dead for years. It's too risky.'

'So what now?'

'Well, we can't try Snape's memories again,' said Hermione. 'He won't swallow another distraction.'

'Maybe I don't want to anyway.' The words had escaped his mouth before he could stop them. He folded his arms and frowned, unsure whether he felt more angry at himself or his dad.

'What do you mean?' said Hermione.

Harry dragged a book across the table and flipped through a few pages.

'Harry?' she persisted, bringing her book down a little when he made no move to reply.

'He was with Sirius and Lupin,' he conceded flatly after a moment, his attention still set on the random pages he held open. 'And Wormtail. And my dad was everything Snape says he was – arrogant, vain – and he was a bully.'

'But it was Snape's memory you were looking at, right?' said Ron.

Harry looked up. 'Yeah, but it still happened. And by the sound of it, it wasn't the first time.' He turned back to his book. 'It was Snape they were bullying, actually – my dad and Sirius.'

'So what?' said Ron. 'I bet he deserved it.'

'That's not the point,' said Harry. 'He was a thief, too.' At Ron's puzzled look, he added, 'He'd stolen a Snitch.'

Ron shrugged. 'So your dad wasn't a saint – who is?'

'Why are you letting this get to you?' asked Hermione, a faint line between her brows.

'It made me think, that's all.'

'Think what?'

'I'd just assumed the reason he hasn't tried to get in touch with me was because he couldn't. But maybe … maybe it's because he doesn't want to.'

Her frown deepened. 'Why on earth wouldn't he want to if he could?'

'I don't know.' He shrugged. 'It's just – well, when I saw him in that memory, I realised he's just – a man – you know? Someone with his own faults. So maybe he got scared when Voldemort found him and my mum? What if he ... you know.' He felt himself redden. It sounded a stupid thing to say now, but it was weighing on his mind after witnessing his dad's immature behaviour. 'What if he ran away?' he blurted to the creased, grubby-edged leaves of the book he gripped.

'And faked his own death?' asked Ron. 'Are you off your rocker?'

'You weren't there,' said Harry, his face burning. 'You didn't see what I saw in that memory!'

'Shh,' whispered Hermione, glancing over her shoulder. 'Keep your voices down.'

'He's lost the plot,' said Ron worriedly, jabbing a thumb in Harry's direction.

'Harry's upset, Ron, he's—'

'I'm not crazy,' said Harry to a startled Hermione. 'It's just I can't believe no one knew anything – _anything_ – in all these years. Dumbledore and Lupin have only just found out he's alive, and—'

'So now you don't think Snape's got anything to do with it?' interrupted Ron, his face still showing incredulity.

'I didn't say that, I just—'

'So Snape helped your dad fake his own death,' Ron ploughed on. 'Is that what you're saying?'

'No, of course not, but... Look, I don't know what to think any more. I'm sick of all this.' In exasperation, he threw down the book and slumped back in his chair. 'He's my dad – I have a right to know the truth.' His distracted glare rested on a first-year poring over his homework at the next table.

'Look,' began Hermione after a moment. 'I have an idea. You're not going to like it, though – but just hear me out.' She waited for Harry to return his attention to their table. 'Lupin's still at Hogwarts, right?'

He nodded. Lupin had been visiting the castle a lot lately. He assumed it must be either something to do with the Order now it had been re-formed, the Wolfsbane Potion or his dad. Or maybe even all three. 'Yeah. But he's not going to tell me anything, is he? He promised Snape enough times.'

'I know. But didn't he also keep trying to talk Snape into telling you?'

'Yeah.' He eyed her warily. He couldn't be more certain hell would freeze over before Snape decided to confess what he knew to him. So where was she going with this?

'Well?' and she waited, as though it were obvious. She added at his questioning look, 'So it wouldn't be so much of a surprise to Lupin if you told him that Snape had told you, would it?'

Harry frowned and Ron appeared equally baffled. 'How's that going to help?'

'Act like you know everything. Be vague and see what Lupin says.' She looked from him to Ron and back again. 'Well, does anyone have any better ideas?'

'You mean,' Harry said slowly, deliberating exactly what this would entail, '_lie_ to Lupin to see if I can get him to let slip something?'

She noted his disbelief. 'I told you you wouldn't like it.' She picked up her book with a frown, leaving him staring across at the cover of _Defensive Magical Theory_.

'It might be the only chance you've got, mate,' whispered Ron in his ear as he retrieved his Quidditch manual.

Harry turned the idea over in his head as his unfocused gaze stayed fixed on the bold lettering of Hermione's book. 'You're right,' he said after a while.

She peered over the pages with a questioning look.

I _don't_ like it, he thought. But instead he said with a shrug and a faint smile, 'I don't have any better ideas.'

She pressed her mouth together, its corners lifting a little in reassurance.

After all he had seen that day, and with the horrible prospect of lying to Lupin ahead of him, Harry felt he really needed cheering up right then. He shifted on the hard library seat to get at least halfway comfortable, finally settling on leaning forward to rest on the table. 'So,' he said, giving Hermione and Ron an earnest look. 'Tell me what you did to Malfoy.'

Hermione's smile broadened.

-x-

'I'm certain the Dark Lord is planning something.'

'I'm sure he is,' said Dumbledore.

Snape turned to him. Down one end of the Great Hall there was a peal of childish laughter. 'Something he's not telling me.'

'You mustn't expect to be in his confidence all the time, Severus.'

'He hasn't yet told me about…' He waited as Pomona Sprout, trampling by where they stood, made it known how delightful today's shepherd's pie had been. Snape took Dumbledore's cheerful acknowledgement away from the line of the staff table. 'He hasn't yet informed me he restored me to life.'

Dumbledore's smile was overshadowed for a second, before he blinked it back. 'Choosing his moment?'

'I think there is more to it. I think he's deliberately holding back.'

They observed goblets being refilled as empty plates were pushed aside, Dumbledore with a grave look. 'Then you must find out.'

'Are you aware of the ease with which Flintoff was captured?'

'Flintoff?'

'The Death Eater who witnessed it all. I asked you for the report on his capture.'

'Ah, yes – you found something?'

'I found nothing of interest – which in itself is interesting. Flintoff has been evading capture for decades, crossing Europe under various names. And yet here he is, just as the Dark Lord returns, in England, right under the Ministry's nose.'

'But not a coincidence? He would want to be at his master's side now, wouldn't he?'

'He's no easy prey. Tell me, what other useful information has he yielded?' If it had not been weighing on his mind, Snape might have found satisfaction in the falling away of Dumbledore's doubt as his thoughts deepened. 'As I thought,' said Snape. 'And I would guess it didn't take him long to divulge his little secret about me. I shouldn't think he'd have needed truth serum to tell it, either. Only when made to confirm it.'

'But if you're suggesting he allowed himself to be captured to deliberately leak this – why take the risk? What could be gained from it? Severus, I understand this is a subject you feel strongly about. But perhaps Lord Voldemort—'

'It's a test.'

Dumbledore did not seem convinced.

'He set Flintoff this task. Rather than inform me directly. He knew you would do so almost as soon as you'd heard. As in fact you did.' Snape let some of the lingering bitterness consume his worry.

'But that doesn't question your loyalty – he knows you have my confidence regardless.'

'Even so. It opens the question of how I treat your confidence.'

Dumbledore turned his thoughts onto a group of giggling Ravenclaws by the door. 'But if that's true, it would mean … He doesn't trust you entirely.'

'He's given no indication. But my delay to him this summer, and the incidents with Quirrell…'

'Of course. We knew you must tread carefully. But this is something else.' Dumbledore studied him. 'He expects you to mention what you've learned.'

'I don't believe he does,' said Snape with more certainty than he felt. 'His intention isn't to see how open I am, not on this subject at least. His interest lies only in information he regards as useful to him. And he would not expect a loyal follower to question or comment on his actions. No, I believe he merely wants to observe my reaction to the news. How I take it.'

'I see. Giving you a push, as it were?'

'Indeed. Very helpful of him.' It was some relief Dumbledore was not reminded of his somewhat foolish earlier decision to leave Hogwarts, which would have done nothing to alleviate the Dark Lord's suspicions.

Dumbledore nodded uneasily. 'You must continue to take care, then. In light of this, I rather agree it's wise to keep the others uninformed.'

Snape found himself pleasantly surprised Dumbledore viewed his concerns this way. It lessened the larger worry he might yet go behind his back to Potter. He should have thought of it before: To Dumbledore, maintaining his spy in the Dark Lord's circle trumped almost everything.

'Speaking of which,' Dumbledore said, as the last few straggles of students loitered around the tables. 'How is Harry's Occlumency coming on?'

Snape scowled. '"Coming on"?' He refuses to practise. It is essential he clears his mind at night if he's to make any progress at all – and plainly he isn't. If I see that dratted dog chasing him up that tree one more time…' At Dumbledore's raised eyebrows, he added, 'His Aunt Marge's dog, apparently.'

'Perhaps –' Dumbledore sighed '– he needs more of an incentive?'

'Incentive?' The Headmaster's naivety when it came to the boy was infuriating. 'Isn't shielding his mind from the Dark Lord reason enough for him?'

'Well,' Dumbledore frowned in thought as Snape turned his eye on a cosy-looking clutch of Gryffindors, 'quite.'


	3. Deceit

_**3. Deceit**_

He agonised over it for days, but he couldn't keep putting it off. The full moon was coming up in a few weeks – and Christmas break – and he might not see Lupin again for months.

It wasn't as if he was hard to find nowadays. Harry had already seen him around the castle on several occasions since school started. 'Order business' he always said when they ran into each other. But Harry knew just what that 'Order business' was, since Lupin was spotted more often than not in or around the dungeons.

He didn't like the idea of deceiving him. Lupin was his friend, and his father's too. But it wouldn't be much of a lie – in fact, it wasn't a lie at all. Not really. He just wouldn't tell him the truth. That wasn't so bad, was it?

When he overheard McGonagall tell Trelawney she had just been talking to Lupin in the staffroom, he decided it was now or never. As he made his way down the corridor his stomach was still complaining from bolting his lunch. Or maybe it was nerves.

The stone sentries on either side of the staffroom door stared down at him accusingly. He didn't have to lie. Just be vague, he told himself.

'Talking to yourself, Potter?'

He turned to see Malfoy eyeing him with hateful glee, flanked by a sniggering Crabbe and Goyle.

'First sign of insanity. Don't want to end up like Longbottom's parents, do you?'

Crabbe and Goyle grunted laughter.

'Get lost, Malfoy.'

'Looks like you're the one who's lost, Potter. Idiot Tower's _that_ way.'

Malfoy clearly wasn't going anywhere, but Harry wasn't going to let the Slytherin stop him now. He turned back to the door and knocked, hoping Malfoy would take the hint.

'Not in trouble again?' sneered Malfoy as Harry kept his gaze fixed on the door. 'But I suppose you're having problems with homework and need extra lessons. How's your_ remedial Potions_ going?'

Harry spun around. How had he heard about that? Not from Neville or the few others who knew.

But then he noticed Crabbe grinning like a madman in a heat wave – Snape must have told Crabbe when Hermione had created the diversion for him the week before.

'How's your rash, Malfoy?' He strained to peer behind Malfoy in mock concern. 'Madam Pomfrey give you enough cream for it? I hope Goyle's not too squeamish. If you need a hand, lads, just give me a shout.'

Malfoy turned an ugly shade of red, and Goyle and Crabbe lost their oafish grins. They stood fast by Malfoy's side as he drew his wand.

Just as Harry pulled out his own wand, the door opened and Lupin appeared. His initial pleasure at seeing Harry fell away on noticing his raised wand. With a frown, he followed where it was directed toward the three Slytherins and their readied wands.

'Don't you boys have any classes to go to?' He smiled politely at Malfoy and his two sidekicks.

Malfoy glared at him, showing no intention of letting himself be told what to do by an ex-teacher, much less one who also happened to be a werewolf.

'I may not be a teacher here any more, Mr Malfoy,' said Lupin, 'but I can still talk to the Headmaster.' He extended another courteous smile.

It only intensified Malfoy's scowl. But he had no choice – Lupin wouldn't buy it if he tried to blame Harry, and Malfoy knew it.

He lowered his wand, still glaring at Lupin, and Crabbe and Goyle followed suit. He shot Harry a fiery glance as he passed that let him know he'd deal with him later.

'All right?' Lupin asked when the three Slytherins were out of earshot down the corridor. Harry nodded and replaced his wand, and Lupin said, 'Was it me you wanted to see?' He looked at his watch. 'Because I'm in a bit of a hurry, I'm afraid. I'm needed back at Order Headquarters after I see Professor Dumbledore.'

In the confrontation with Malfoy and his goons, Harry had nearly forgotten what he had come to find Lupin for. Now, on remembering, he felt his voice stick in his throat. He glanced down the empty corridor. 'I…' he began, his voice sounding shaky. Be vague, he thought, recalling Hermione's advice. He took a deep breath. 'Professor Snape told me,' he said in a rush before he lost his nerve.

Lupin was searching his face, which Harry was certain must be growing redder by the second. 'Told you what?'

'He … told me … about…' It was all very well being vague – but what then? He glanced up, but to his dismay, Lupin was simply waiting for him to continue. Harry turned his attention to the staffroom door, unable to look Lupin in the eye. 'About … everything. You know, about my dad … that he's not dead, and…' He stopped then and waited for Lupin to fill in the gaps.

He seemed to be doing just that, though not out loud. A few tense moments passed, then Lupin let out a breath that sounded to Harry's ears like relief. 'He told you?' Lupin reached to scratch the back of his neck. 'Well, I never thought he would actually tell you…' He glanced anxiously at his watch again, then looked with interest at Harry, whose wait for important hints was fast turning into an unendurable test of patience. 'You seem to be taking it quite well.'

Harry's heart thumped a stronger beat. It wasn't really that bad, was it? Was his dad in that much trouble? A slow terror took hold of him.

'You know –' Lupin's close gaze was becoming suffocating '– Severus isn't finding it easy to come to terms with. So I hope you and he can get along better now you know. It might help. Maybe that's why he finally decided to tell you.'

'Right,' was all Harry dared to say. He had to say something.

'Look, I'm sorry, Harry – I really do need to go. I promise you we'll talk soon. All right?'

It was disheartening he hadn't discovered anything significant, anything useful. He had only succeeded in making matters worse. He looked desperately at Lupin, knowing he would mention this encounter to Snape. And then both men would know he'd been lying. Lupin's disappointment would pale in comparison to Snape's fury.

'I hope,' said Lupin in the mild teacher-like tone he used to use in class, 'you and Draco Malfoy can get along better as well, now you both have something in common – in a way.' He flashed a tentative smile.

'Do we?' He couldn't help the question. Lupin's suggestion was so utterly unexpected – and bewildering. What on earth could he possibly share with Draco?

A group of chattering Hufflepuffs appeared around the corner, fast approaching them. 'Yes,' said Lupin hesitantly, readying himself to leave. He seemed amused, and grinned as if the joke was obvious. The students passed by, drowning Lupin's whisper in a wave of noise. 'Well, as Draco's father is a Death Eater? Anyway, I'll see you later.'

Harry stood and stared at Lupin's head as it bobbed among the Hufflepuffs until the greying hair was swallowed in the maelstrom.

-x-

Later that afternoon the staffroom's gargoyles found themselves on the receiving end of a glare so stony it made them feel almost animate in comparison.

Snape strode into the panelled room in a foul mood. Which was perfectly normal after teaching a tiresome class of second-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws.

He made for the low oak table pushed up against the far wall and turned an impatient eye on the two battered canisters of tea and coffee. He didn't consider himself a coffee person, preferring the calming properties of tea over the reinvigorating powers of caffeine. But there was only one thing worse than first-year dunderheads, and that was second-year clowns.

'Ah, here you are, Severus!' Lupin sounded excruciatingly cheerful.

Definitely make it coffee, he thought with a grimace as he heard Lupin close the door after him. He reached out and grew aware of a grinning Lupin hovering next to him. 'What?' he demanded, swiping the canister from the table.

'You've done the right thing, you know.'

Snape examined the container in his hand then looked to the one on the table. 'Why? What's wrong with the tea?'

Lupin let out a loud laugh.

And then the werewolf actually slapped him on the back.

The liberties Lupin was taking were fast becoming intolerable. He would murder Dumbledore for telling the werewolf about the Potter that would not go away. The other one.

'You know what I mean,' said Lupin, still beaming in the face of Snape's outrage. 'Telling Harry.'

'Potter?' He put down the coffee. 'What about him?' What was the boy up to now?

'You know what about,' insisted Lupin with an infuriating smile. 'I saw him earlier – he seemed to be taking it quite well. You see – I told you there was nothing to worry about.'

Snape studied Lupin's triumph for clues; he felt the hackles on the back of his neck begin to rise. He looked him in the eye. 'What did Potter say to you?'

The werewolf's jubilant expression twitched with doubt. 'He said you'd told him.'

'Told him what?' breathed Snape. But as soon as he had asked, he knew he did not want to know the answer.

Lupin laughed feebly in a poor attempt to dispel the tension. 'Well, come on … you know,' he said uncertainly. 'What we talked about.'

Snape intensified his glare. 'Lupin – what did Potter say to you _exactly_?'

Thankfully, no evidence was now left of the werewolf's earlier joy – but it had been utterly usurped by anxiety, which inspired little confidence. 'He said … that you'd told him.' Lupin paused. 'He said he knew that … that James isn't dead.'

If Snape's stomach hadn't already been turning for the past few moments, he was sure he would have felt it lurch at this. But he was less sure whether it was solely because the boy had somehow discovered something, or also because of the simple, casual remark that affected him so deeply. 'Is that all he said?'

Lupin's nod was hesitant.

'You're certain?'

'Yes. You did … you did tell him, didn't you?'

Snape stared at his naivety. 'Did I not say – many times – that I would not tell the boy?'

Lupin's deepening confusion was testing Snape's patience. 'But,' said Lupin, 'if you didn't … How did he find out?'

'That is what I would like to know.' Potter always managed to get himself into mischief by some means, just like his father before him. But the method was irrelevant; of higher priority now was to ascertain exactly what he knew. He studied Lupin's dazed expression. 'Well? What did you say to him then?'

'I, er, I was in a hurry. Dumbledore wanted to see me before London. I don't—' His eyes widened. 'Oh … oh, no.' He blanched.

'What?'

Lupin was gripping the edge of the table. 'I have to find him.' He turned to leave.

In one swift movement, Snape blocked his way with an angry stare. 'Lupin. Tell me what you said to the boy. If by some merciful chance you managed not to blurt the whole lot out, I am not about to let you fill him in now.'

'Let me past, Severus. I am not going to let him think…' He tried to move away, but Snape forced him back, pinning him to the table edge.

'You are not going anywhere until you tell me what you said to him.'

Lupin did well to evince an almost pleading gaze through his obviously painful tension. It took a moment for him to realise he was never going to win this one; his grip on the oak at his back loosened as he released a breath. 'He and Draco Malfoy were arguing in the corridor. I thought maybe if I … I was just trying to lighten…' His look was pained. 'I thought you'd told him everything – I would never have said it otherwise.'

Snape narrowed his eyes. 'What _about_ Draco?'

Lupin swallowed. 'I pointed out he and Draco have something in common.' His voice was low and grating. 'That they both … that Draco's father's…' He ended with another awkward bob of the throat.

'Is a Death Eater?' Snape finished for him.

Lupin's nod was watchful, Snape noticed.

'That is all you told him?'

'Yes,' said Lupin, a touch of relief in his voice. 'I had to go then. Some students came by – we didn't get a chance to talk further.'

Snape eased back from him. 'Listen to me, Lupin—'

Lupin shook his head. 'No. I have to tell him. I'm not going to let Harry think his fa—'

'Listen! First of all, you will find out how and what he knows and what he thinks my involvement is in this. Then – if he doesn't already know everything – you _will_ do this, Lupin – you will tell him James Potter is working undercover for the Order, and that is all. You got the boy into this mess,' he added at Lupin's dejection. At least it meant he had won this battle. For now. 'You will tell him he is working for Dumbledore, and nothing else. Is that plain?'

'I don't like lying to him.'

Snape sneered. 'Potter had no qualms about lying to you.' He moved away to a mismatched armchair and rested his hands on its back to think better. 'But we must be economical with the truth.' He dug his fingers into the worn upholstery. 'Tell him Dumbledore and I alone knew these past years, that he had to remain undercover – and still does.'

'Well, that's not true, is it?'

'For pity's sake. Potter obviously went to you with the aim of finding out the rest of what, hopefully little, he had already discovered. His intention was to catch you out.' He glared at Lupin. 'Which clearly worked. You should be thankful I'm permitting you to tell him even this.'

The werewolf's cogs were moving – but plainly deciding it was best not to argue the point further, after a moment he straightened and strode to the door.

'Meet me in my office afterwards,' Snape called out as Lupin left.

He had to wait over an hour.

He had already made a start on rearranging the ingredients on his shelves for the second time when Lupin slumped into the nearest chair. 'I told him.'

Snape put down the jar of half-rotten lizard tongues he had somehow missed earlier. He scrutinised Lupin's heavy look. 'How much does he know? How did he find out?'

'He knows very little. He overheard us the day Dumbledore told me.'

'You and Dumbledore?'

'You and I. In here.'

'_In_ here?' Were there no bounds to the boy's arrogance? He seethed at Lupin's melancholy. At least the boy hadn't been prowling around his memories during an Occlumency lesson – that was what he had feared the most. 'Sneaking around again, poking his nose in other people's business, the foolhardy—'

'DON'T talk about him like that!'

Taken aback, Snape observed his distress for a second. Then it occurred to him: 'He must have used that Invisibility Cloak.' He scowled at Lupin's squirm of confirmation. 'I should confiscate it from him. After all, it's more mine than his, isn't it?'

The werewolf's overwrought look intensified into something resembling anger.

Snape ignored it. 'Can he be trusted to keep what he knows to himself?'

'I don't know why I… I'm only here at all because Dumbledore asked.'

By the tightness around his mouth, it was plainly meant to be righteous anger. But Snape wasn't about to let him have the monopoly on that. Not after the mess he had made today. 'Because he told. Because he told you what he had no business to tell you.'

'I want to help. But you don't tell me anything.'

'Tell you what? Are you my confessor, werewolf? Is Dumbledore paying you a wage? Merlin knows you need it.' Lupin's face burned as Snape raked his eyes over his shabby clothes. 'Say whatever it is you want to say.'

'I didn't know you were with Voldemort at Godric's Hollow.'

Snape's mind was a forest floor in autumn swept clean by a gust. Dead leaves, sleep disturbed, chased each other away, until the forest was straight and still again. He floated his voice down the gentle waters of its stream. 'It seems plain you do know.'

'I didn't before Dumbledore told me.' Lupin appeared eager to make full use of the small foothold he had found. 'What else have you been keeping to yourself?'

'Are you accusing me of knowing all along?'

'No I'm not—'

'Do you think it gives me pleasure, that my soul is not mine but Potter's? Do you think I would have chosen it, if the Dark Lord had given me the choice?'

Lupin was blessedly silent.

'I have no memory of what happened to me. I was dead for a time. Dead. No –' he said as Lupin made to speak '– no, I don't remember my own death.' He paused to take in Lupin's discomfort, savoured it for a second. 'I suppose Dumbledore has told you it was Potter who killed me – or did he spare you the gory details?' Lupin was shaking his head now – whether because he had not been told or did not want to listen again, Snape neither knew nor cared. 'Oh yes, your dear friend Potter. And when he took my life, that moment went with it. The only witness left was the Death Eater with us, the one now in Azkaban. The Dark Lord was finished that night, remember? Or so we all thought.'

Lupin's ludicrous indignation had died down, replaced by an equally unbefitting determination to prove some point. 'But surely you must have wondered why? Why you didn't remember? Why there was a gap in your memory—?'

'I have no wish to relive that night!' He had raised his voice – an unforgivable lapse – and Lupin showed surprised. Snape turned away.

Though he had no wish to relive it, it seemed his sleeping mind had other plans of late.

Sleep – now there was a novelty. If the Dark Lord's return was not bad enough, he now had this knowledge to deal with as well. He had stopped taking Dreamless Sleeping Potion. It had loosened the mind during the day – useless if thoughts and emotions were to remain disciplined. He could afford no distractions; he had to reclaim his mind for his own. But the nights did not belong to him.

He hated dreams. They were the thoughts that resisted control, buried emotions that clawed their way back. Only this morning he had woken from an especially vivid one of the recent run. It had begun as they usually did with Dumbledore once more demonstrating the test on his magical core. In Snape's hand his wand had pointed out his fate again. He had refuted it. He had turned away. He had slammed the door behind him. But instead of the spiral staircase outside Dumbledore's office, there was the sparse cottage hallway as though it had been lying in wait. His gaze had fallen on the body of James Potter.

Potter's glasses lay broken on the floor, his naked eyes staring up at the low-beamed ceiling. The Dark Lord's voice, shrilling through Snape's body, was giving the order to find the boy. He stepped over Potter to reach the staircase. But he had barely placed one foot on the narrow wooden steps when he felt the hand grab him. He was dragged down and forced around. 'THIEF!' Potter was shrieking, hazel eyes wild without his glasses, hands moving to grasp Snape's neck. 'Give me back my soul! Thief! THIEF!' Fingers tightened around his throat; he was being shaken sharply back and forth as though Potter were trying to loosen and release from him what was rightfully his.

It was then, as he struggled to find his breath and stem his rising horror, Snape noticed the Dark Lord was watching. He appeared as he did now, with slits marking the place where a noble nose had once been. His laughter was echoing around the small house and growing both in volume and depravity as Potter's anger and grip intensified. It ended only when the constant shaking sent Snape stumbling back against the hard stairs.

It was merely a senseless dream. He had no way of knowing what had really happened that night. He had never questioned his hazy memory – why wouldn't he have cast off some parts? That was what he had assumed he had done.

But now the gaps haunted him. What did they contain? His mind, so restless it broke free from the constraints of Occlumency he imposed at night, was only too willing to fill them in for him.

'I suppose that's why the Dark Lord gave me Potter's life in return – he plainly thought it was the least Potter could do.' Of course he knew his true reasons had been otherwise. The Dark Lord had brought him back from just beyond the brink of death simply to continue using him as a spy against Dumbledore… But instead the Dark Lord had succeeded in making sure Dumbledore had his spy against _him_. Snape could have smiled at the irony. He looked back and saw Lupin's face was grim.

'The Darkest magic…'

'Yes, the Dark Lord would have enjoyed using it.' Snape let the heavy silence stand for a moment, then returned to his earlier question. 'Can the boy be trusted to keep what he knows to himself?'

Now he had exhausted his collection of bones to pick over, Lupin's pause was telling. 'He wanted to talk to Sirius.'

'Black?' Snape held his breath. That was the last thing he needed, Black knowing about this. Thank Merlin they had caught Potter before it was too late.

'He wants to, but I told him it was important he tell no one, not even Sirius.'

'_Especially_ not Black,' Snape corrected.

Lupin glared like a defeated child. 'Now he's having lessons in Occlumency, what harm would there be in telling Harry the truth?'

'You seem to be under the illusion he's making any kind of progress.'

'He will improve.'

'Really?' He let his gaze wander to the shelves and felt himself relaxing for the first time that afternoon. 'Highly doubtful – certainly not at this rate. He doesn't do as he's told, just like his fa—' He left the rest unspoken on remembering the man he had managed to forget for one glorious moment. He turned to his desk. 'In any case, I have a feeling the Dark Lord expected Potter to be informed by Dumbledore as I was. It is better the boy knows as little as possible.'

'What do you mean?'

'I think all this was leaked purposely by the Dark Lord. As a test,' he added at Lupin's frown.

'To test Harry?'

Sometimes the werewolf's idiocy was testing enough. 'Why would he want to test Potter? To test _me_.'

Lupin blinked, confusion falling back to concern. 'He thinks…?'

'Perhaps. I don't know. We shall see. Best not to tell Dumbledore of your stupidity today,' he said, turning a sneer on Lupin's shallow worry. 'You might find the castle barred if it's decided you've made one mess too many.' He watched the conflicting emotions play over him. 'Everything must be as normal,' he said.

As normal as can be, he thought, now the boy believed James Potter lived, and to be a spy among the Death Eaters.


	4. The Secret Agent

_**4. The secret agent**_

'That is so cool. I wish my dad was a spy.'

'It's really dangerous, Ron.' Harry kept his voice low as Seamus grabbed a cushion from a nearby armchair, tossed it back down in frustration, and moved on to one currently occupied by a confused-looking first year.

'Yeah, but at least he's alive, mate. It was only a few weeks ago you thought he was dead anyway.'

'But I still don't want him getting hurt.' Harry hunkered down to carry on trying to catch up on homework. Though with Ron's regular comments of approval about James from his seat opposite, he was finding it hard to concentrate on the Charms essay which he was painfully aware was due first thing tomorrow.

'Listen to you two.' Hermione closed her book over a finger and laid it in her lap. 'Typical boys.'

'What d'you mean?' said Ron.

'"Cool! I wish _my_ dad was a spy!"' she said, doing her best imitation of an over-enthusiastic Ron.

'Well, I do. My dad collects Muggle plugs and – things. Not exactly something you'd want to brag about, is it?'

'I can't tell anyone anyway, Ron,' said Harry. 'I can't risk blowing his cover.'

'Bummer.' Ron gave him a look of pity. 'You've got the coolest dad in the school and you can't tell anyone.'

Hermione rolled her eyes and tutted.

Harry put down his quill and smirked at her in a sly way. 'Potter – James Potter,' he said, taking off a refined accent.

Hermione snorted laughter and slumped back in her armchair, forgetting to be serious for a moment. 'He even has the same first name!' she said. Harry grinned at her.

Ron looked at them, bewildered. 'What? What's so funny?'

Hermione stifled her giggles. 'It's a character in a film, Ron. You know what a film is? I did say you should have taken Muggle Studies.'

'I know what a _film_ is,' said Ron dismissively. 'Dad's seen some. Says they're nothing special – just like photos but with sound. Anyway, I'm not doing Muggle Studies just so I can get all your lame in-jokes.'

Hermione and Harry glanced at one another and burst into giggles again.

'I'm glad you find it so funny,' said Ron with a serious expression Harry initially took as sulkiness. 'Harry's dad's out there risking his life for him, for the Order – well, for everyone, isn't he? He's spying on You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters, and Merlin knows what danger he's in every single day.'

Harry sobered up. 'Yeah, thanks for that, Ron.'

'Wow,' said Hermione dreamily.

'Don't you start,' said Harry.

'Sorry. Well, it certainly beats having dentists for parents.'

Harry shook his head and picked up his quill to refocus on the essay. What was that charm for making everyone believe you were their best friend? He was sure Flitwick had mentioned a wizard who had used it to con money out of people, before the man had got caught trying to charm goblins, who were well known for being immune to the spell. If he could think of his name, he might get an extra mark on this thing.

'So, who else knows?' Hermione had adopted her serious tone again.

'Just Lupin, Dumbledore and Snape,' said Harry, 'as far as I know. Lupin said only Snape and Dumbledore knew about it all along, and Lupin just found out recently.'

'Why have they told Lupin now?' she asked.

Harry shrugged. 'Didn't say.'

'So,' said Ron, 'Dumbledore can tell you how your dad is, then.'

'I don't think so,' said Hermione. 'If no one else knows anything, then it's pretty obvious Harry's dad goes through Snape. Maybe Dumbledore never meets him in person, just uses Snape as the go-between. That'd make his cover pretty water-tight, wouldn't it?'

'Bloody hell,' said Ron. 'If that's true, you've got no chance of finding out anything from Snape, mate.'

'Thanks, Ron.' Harry gazed miserably at his far-from-completed Charms work.

'But,' began Ron, 'how come You-Know-Who really believes your dad would want to be a Death Eater and disown you, after all he did?'

'Yeah – well,' said Harry, 'Voldemort's mad enough, isn't he? And besides, it's only recently Voldemort's come back.'

'Not according to the Ministry,' pointed out Hermione.

'Well, Dumbledore's still working on that.' Dumbledore did seem to be spending a lot of time away from the school lately trying to convince the Ministry of Voldemort's return. If they had only believed Harry when he had tried to tell them this summer, Dumbledore wouldn't be having to do all this now.

'Why would You-Know-Who want to make it look like your dad died, though?' asked Ron.

'Maybe so no one would try to rescue him?' Harry shrugged. 'Who knows what goes through the mind of a madman like Voldemort? Maybe he tried to brainwash him, and Dad let him believe it'd worked.'

'And no one else knows who your dad is?' asked Hermione. 'The other Death Eaters, I mean?'

'As far as I know, they always wear masks when they get together,' said Harry. 'Maybe he uses a false name, too – I dunno.'

'And Sirius doesn't know anything?' she asked.

'Not a thing.' It felt odd, Sirius not knowing when Lupin did. 'And Lupin said I wasn't to say anything to him. I don't see why. He was my dad's best friend – it's not like he's gonna go around shouting about it. Can't very well do that stuck in his house anyway, can he?'

'Harry,' said Hermione slowly, narrowing her eyes. 'Aren't we missing something here?'

'Like what?'

'Well… Why did Dumbledore tell the Ministry that Sirius was your parents' Secret-Keeper? I mean, your dad knew it had been Pettigrew. He must have told Dumbledore that.'

He stared, dumbstruck. With all the excitement of imagining his dad's adventures, he'd forgotten about Sirius's past. He worked through the implications. 'You're right. He would have told him, wouldn't he? Then they'd have known Wormtail was lying, that he must have faked his own death to pin it on Sirius. Dad would never have let Sirius rot in Azkaban for all those years.'

'But then maybe,' she said, staying unreasonably calm, 'if Dumbledore had told them the truth about the Secret-Keeper, it might have blown your dad's cover – after all, who else could have let Dumbledore know other than your dad – the only one still alive, apart from Wormtail himself, out of those who'd set the Fidelius Charm?'

'Maybe – it wouldn't have helped anyway. But I still don't believe Dad would've let that happen to Sirius, even if it might have put him in danger otherwise.'

'But you're forgetting,' said Ron, 'his cover's so deep he probably has to go through Snape with everything. Maybe it was like that then too.'

Harry studied him. 'You think he told Snape and Snape said nothing to Dumbledore about it?'

Ron snorted. 'Come on, mate. Snape _hates_ Sirius. Makes sense now why Sirius isn't being told about all this now he's out of Azkaban, doesn't it?'

'But James wouldn't have kept quiet about it,' said Hermione. 'He could at least have told Dumbledore who the true Secret-Keeper had been. There's got to be another explanation.'

'Like what?' said Ron. 'Maybe he didn't have a choice. Snape's the one in control here. You don't want to believe any professor would put an innocent man in jail? Remember, he nearly got Sirius Kissed by Dementors a few years back. This is _Snape_ we're talking about.'

'Snape thought Sirius was a murderer, Ron.'

'No, he didn't, Hermione. That's the point. He knew Wormtail had lied – Harry's dad must have told Snape the truth. So the slimy git had to have known Wormtail had framed Sirius.' Ron seemed pleasantly surprised at having worked that one out for himself.

The fury that had been building inside Harry was making itself felt. 'How could he do that? He's been even meaner about my dad this year, too.'

'Stands to reason,' said Ron, still basking in his insight while Hermione stayed unusually quiet.

'Why?' asked Harry. 'They're supposed to be on the same side now, aren't they?'

'He's jealous, isn't he? I bet your dad makes a much better spy than Snape _ever_ could.'

Hermione broke her affronted silence. 'So you're admitting Professor Snape _is_ a spy for us then, Ron?'

Ron waved this off. 'I'm not saying he's any good. All the useful stuff Dumbledore gets is probably from Harry's dad. I wouldn't be surprised if Snape passed some of it off as his own work to stay in Dumbledore's good books. Plus, he hated Sirius enough to leave him to the Dementors in Azkaban, hates Harry and Harry's dad. Not exactly one of the good guys then, is he?'

'But if he really hated Harry's dad that much, he'd have shopped him to You-Know-Who _years_ ago.'

'Yeah, well.' Ron shrugged. 'Can't excuse what he did to Sirius, though.'

'I still can't believe that.' Harry shook his head as he thought. 'Because then Dumbledore would've known Snape had held back on him. He'd _never_ have trusted him after that.'

'Hey,' said Seamus, coming up to them again. 'Anyone seen my Charms homework? I was sure it was in my room.'

Hermione and Ron had to tell him they hadn't, and Seamus went off to search the library, while Harry's thoughts were returned to his own barely begun essay in front of him. He picked up his quill and leaned over his textbook with reluctance.

His attention kept wandering in the direction of his dad, his thoughts swirling around the complexities of all the subterfuge.

After reading the same paragraph twice, he sighed in defeat, letting his quill drop, and leaned back. With his mind elsewhere, he watched his friends. On the table between them, Ron was trying to balance several Exploding Snap cards, and Hermione had returned to her book. 'You know,' he said, now the Common Room had become quieter again, 'it makes me feel less alone – now I know my dad's out there somewhere trying to get rid of Voldemort. I mean, Sirius is trying, and I appreciate that, but he can't leave Grimmauld Place. But Dad – he probably goes to Death Eater meetings, gets important information for the Order – and generally manages to pull the wool over Voldemort's eyes.'

'He's very brave, Harry,' said Hermione.

He returned her smile. 'Yeah. I just wish I could see him. Even just for a few minutes – that'd be something – better than nothing. I'd know he was all right then, too.'

'How far are you on your essay, mate?' Ron held up a crumpled parchment he had just extracted from beneath a small heap of books on the floor beside him. 'I've just found Seamus's homework.' He grinned and glanced cautiously around the room.

'Ron!' said Hermione. 'I hope you're not suggesting what I think you are.'

'Don't worry, Hermione,' said Harry. 'Plagiarism's a mortal sin – right, Ron?' He sneaked Ron a small mischievous smile.

'I'll take it to him.' She rose from her seat. 'He's in the library, right?' She snatched it from Ron and marched to the door.

Ron made a face at Harry when she left. Harry grinned and picked up his quill. He turned back to his copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Five_, found his place, and began to read the paragraph for a third time.

-x-

Harry Potter was in the centre of a grim room. Damp covered its walls, leaving the greying wallpaper hanging off in places, and a bleak light emanated from a fixture in the ceiling. Cold hung in the air. A key turned in a lock behind him, and he turned around…

Potter fell back against the chair when Snape released him from the spell.

Snape lowered his wand. 'What place is that?'

'I dunno.' Potter slumped, panting, into the chair. Snape had never seen anything so odd and unrecognisable in the boy's head. Perhaps it was simply an image of a recent nightmare? Potter was reticent, and Snape had the feeling he wasn't telling him everything.

Potter got to his feet again, bracing himself and making a feeble attempt to clear his mind of emotion in preparation for the next test.

'Handing me weapons again, Potter.' Snape regarded the boy's shabby concentration, his wand already raised in self-defence. 'Will you ever give that up? At least I don't see that blasted dog as often.'

Snape noticed the boy swallow and his face flush. Was it possible he had been pushing forward images of his idiotic Muggle relatives to cover up something else? Something important that Potter hadn't wanted him to see? But what?

'Sir? Can I ask you something?'

'It had better be something to do with Occlumency.'

Potter held his tongue. He lowered his gaze along with his wand, the former to the desk between them.

Here it comes, thought Snape. He had been dreading the boy asking questions about his father and had planned some suitable answers to possible questions. 'That is what we are here for after all – is it not, Potter?' He raised a challenging eyebrow.

'This is to shield my mind from Vol— from _him_ – isn't it?' Potter glanced up. 'Sir?' he added, plainly as an afterthought.

Snape studied the boy's anxiety. Hadn't he already explained this? 'That is the general idea, yes.'

'What for?'

Snape arched his eyebrows in mock amazement. '"What for"? Perhaps you _want_ to be able to think and feel what the Dark Lord thinks and feels – to open up your mind to him?'

'No, of course not.'

'Then what is your confusion?'

'I'm not confused. I'm just … I was just wondering … if Vo—' Potter affected a sigh. '…if _he_ could know what _I'm_ thinking sometimes, too.'

Snape observed the boy for a moment. He chose his words carefully. 'I suppose that is possible. The Headmaster did have some concerns in that area.' While Dumbledore had mentioned something about Potter's recent potentially aggressive attitude around him, he hadn't specifically suggested that the Dark Lord may be using Legilimency on Potter – which, of course, required eye contact. But Snape was reluctant to deny its possibility if doing so meant the boy's complacency.

Potter nodded hard and fixed his eyes on the desk. 'Right.'

Where was this line of questioning supposed to be leading? Contrary to what Snape had expected, it did not seem to be about James Potter after all. The boy continued to stare resolutely ahead at the table, as though he'd suddenly found inspiration in his paperwork. More than he himself ever found.

'Shall we continue, then?' Snape said at last. Since he had, of course, intended it as a command, not a suggestion, Snape raised his wand.

Potter lifted his head and met his gaze. 'Is my dad in the Order?'

Momentarily startled by the question combined with the sudden resumption of eye contact, Snape's focus on his lead into the spell wavered. 'What?' he murmured.

'I mean, technically – is he in the Order of the Phoenix?'

Snape lowered his arm. These were more like the type of questions he had been expecting. He considered his answer. The boy had most likely been told something about the original Order, so it would not be too difficult to deflect him. 'Well, he _was_, wasn't he?'

Potter was silent for a moment, probably thinking of Black's boasts of yesteryear. 'Yeah. But is he _now_, I mean?'

Snape hadn't become the spy he was today without knowing how to not tell the truth and yet not exactly lie either. Lies had their place, of course, but they could be slippery. He knew from experience that, when in doubt, simply reply with another question as though the overly curious were dense cretins who needed everything spelt out to them in the simplest terms. Of course, Potter fell naturally into this group anyway. 'If he was, wouldn't everyone else in the Order know about it?'

Potter frowned in thought. 'So he operates through you, then?'

This threw Snape off for a second; he did not like the distasteful way these questions were sounding. 'He … what?'

'You pass the information he gives you on to Professor Dumbledore?'

Snape inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. 'Mmm.' He mentally berated himself for his childish paranoia and waited for more. He supposed he might as well get as much as possible of this uncomfortable grilling over with now.

'Does he … does he have the Dark Mark?'

Snape took a certain satisfaction in his answer. 'Yes. Yes, he does.' He saw the boy's eyes move to his left forearm where his brand was, putting him on edge. As he stood there under Potter's horrified gaze, he idly wondered whether he ought not to add a teaspoonful of sugar to Lupin's Wolfsbane Potion to teach the werewolf to keep his mouth shut in future. Revenge truly was sweet. He smirked at his pun.

The boy chose that moment to glance up. His horror gave way to red-faced anger. 'Why doesn't Sirius know anything about this?'

Snape pressed his lips together in annoyance. 'The fewer who know, the better.'

'He was my dad's best friend.'

Snape made a derisive noise. _Not any longer, Potter._

The boy regarded him with growing dislike and moved to tighten his grip on his wand. '_I_ know why he doesn't know.'

Snape watched him with detached interest. 'Really?'

'Yeah. Because then you'd have to admit to him you didn't tell Dumbledore – that you let him rot in Azkaban.'

Snape curled his lip in scorn. 'What is this nonsense, Potter? What am I supposed to have not told Dumbledore?'

'That Sirius wasn't my parents' Secret-Keeper – that it was actually Wormtail. My parents had told everyone it had been Sirius so no one would suspect Wormtail. But Dumbledore would have told the Ministry the truth, and they would have known Sirius wasn't a killer – they'd have known Wormtail had set him up. And Sirius would never have gone to Azkaban.'

Snape stared. The boy seemed to have some intelligence after all. But why hadn't he thought of it himself? He saw again the address the Dark Lord had shown him on their arrival in the village of Godric's Hollow. Ink like the night on parchment bleached orange from the light of the street lamp. He had always simply assumed it had been written in Black's hand.

'Well?' the boy demanded, his face still set with childish rage.

Snape looked stolidly ahead. 'He forgot.'

Potter gave him an incredulous look. 'He _forgot_?'

The boy thinks I'm lying, Snape thought. How ironic. Perhaps he should tell him the truth: His father had destroyed his chance, and everyone else's life with it. He narrowed his eyes at Potter's impatience. 'The spell the Dark Lord performed on him – memory loss was one of its effects. He simply did not remember – he assumed Black had indeed been the Secret-Keeper, as everyone else did.'

Potter contemplated this in silence.

'No need to apologise, Potter – really,' Snape scoffed. 'You only accused me of sending an innocent man to prison, after all.'

But the boy apparently hadn't heard him. 'That explains,' he said slowly, 'the Reverse Spell effect. Priori Inc— something.'

'Priori Incantatem?' asked Snape, and he saw Potter nod. 'What about it?'

'When Voldem—' The boy broke off when he saw the look of warning at the name. But he was eager to go on. 'When I met him in June, our wands didn't work properly when he fought me – when they connected – because they share the same core.'

Had the boy mistaken him for a first-year student, Snape wondered. 'I know all that, but what _about_ it?'

'I saw echoes of what he'd used his wand on. They came out of it in reverse order. I saw … Cedric Diggory.' He paused at this to take a breath. 'And my mum and dad. So that must have been because of the spell he did on my dad, and not because he'd killed him. Because the first thing I saw was the new hand he'd made Wormtail.'

Snape made sure his expression remained unreadable before asking, 'And the last thing you saw?'

'My dad.'

He studied Potter until he was satisfied the boy was not lying or holding back anything important. He thanked Merlin the Dark Lord's connection had been broken at that point. Potter would certainly have had questions if an image of him had emerged from the wand next. It might not have done, of course – since Snape's memory was indeed of little use, he had no idea what kind of Dark magic the Dark Lord had used that day; it could have merely involved the soul transference and hence only the death of the boy's father's body.

'So what did he do?' Potter asked impatiently, pulling Snape out of his own thoughts.

'Who?'

Potter screwed his face up in an ugly look of defiance. 'Voldemort.' His boldness increased on seeing the effect. 'What did he do to my dad?'

The uncomfortable questioning was getting more tedious by the second; it was almost as bad as being interrogated by the Dark Lord himself. 'I have no idea.' He looked over at the clock on the wall. 'Well, it seems it is nearly the end of our lesson – sadly there is no time left to start practising again now.' Potter stayed mercifully silent as he regarded the boy. 'It is also our last lesson of this term. Let us hope you don't slip behind over the Christmas break. But then,' he sneered, 'seeing as you have made no progress at all in the weeks we have been doing this, there is little risk of that, is there?'

Potter stood where he was for a moment. 'See you in the New Year, then,' he said at last, '… sir.'

Snape watched him leave. Something about Potter's delayed reaction made him uneasy. There had been a suggestion of purpose, some resolve, that he didn't like.

But what could the boy possibly do over Christmas? If he was staying with his dear godfather, Lupin would very probably be there too. He would make sure the boy didn't get any ideas about telling Black his father was alive. No, the werewolf wouldn't dare to place at risk the special access he thought he now had to his old friend Potter.

After he had returned his memories from the Pensieve, he went back to the marking from which he had broken off for the boy's pointless lesson.

Just being paranoid, he told himself as he plunged his quill into the red inkpot.


	5. Reformed, eh?

_**5. Reformed, eh?**_

Harry lay back in the four-poster and gazed at the oak as it thrashed its gnarled fingers at the night. Its twisting fury seemed a world away from the serenity of the room, where only the fire under the chimney quivered.

His first Christmas with Sirius was turning out to be just as enjoyable as he had imagined. He had been looking forward to it for ages, and having Lupin spend it with them made it all the better. Harry had barely had time to settle in before Sirius had brought out the photo album on the first snowy evening in the kitchen. Harry had gazed hungrily at it, each waving picture beckoning the Christmas he would one day spend with all of them – Sirius, Lupin – and his dad too. Sirius was full of tales, and Harry was eager to hear them all. Lupin was less enthusiastic – Sirius had to tease out his side of every story – but it wasn't hard to guess why, since Harry felt just as guilty about knowing something Sirius didn't. Especially when Sirius grew quiet when remembering James.

Harry hated that. Lupin was adamant Sirius must not know until his dad was ready. Sirius wasn't exactly the kind of person who could keep that type of knowledge to himself, Harry knew that. Sirius was far from reluctant to talk about what they had got up to at school – gory details and all. Lupin simply frowned at the parts that made Harry squirm. He tried not to remember what he had seen in Snape's memory of the day of their OWL exam, how his dad and Sirius had picked on Snape. He preferred not to think of his dad like that.

So it wasn't difficult to see why it was felt Sirius should not know – yet. Still, it was hard. But his dad's safety was his priority right now. If he was to see him again, Harry had to make sure that his knowing he was alive did not put his dad in danger.

And that meant putting some effort into Occlumency. He wasn't about to lose his father again – and definitely not because he couldn't be bothered with this 'shielding the mind' thing. What Snape had said had become a kind of mantra, because if Voldemort could see into his thoughts, then he was going to have to make certain he would never see that one thing. Just that one thing could bring his world down.

For the last few days he had gone to bed closing his mind. He was getting the hang of it, he was sure. Once you focused on the thing that really mattered, you just put it to one side, a bit like boxing it up to save for another day. It was a piece of cake, really.

Apart from the headaches, which sometimes made it more difficult to concentrate.

Trying not to think or feel also made looking at photos and listening to Sirius's stories harder – but there was that day to look forward to. That day would come, he knew, and then there would be no need for feverish dreams – it would be real.

Until then, he boxed and labelled and bottled. Thoughts, feelings, emotions – his entire mind was a minefield. Everything had to be tucked away securely.

Christmas was great – but torture – though at night he tried not to let himself feel much of anything either way. During the day, he had little choice but to go along with Sirius's nostalgia. Harry wasn't exactly complaining. It was just for Christmas. Even megalomaniacs like Voldemort took a break at Christmas, didn't they?

He closed his eyes and listened to the tree's creaking limbs. The dreams he had chased over the past several weeks began their usual clamour for his attention. He tipped every one of them, without mercy, out of his mind and let the strained sighs of the old oak fill the void.

-x-

Snape cursed Dumbledore under his breath for forcing him to recite various items of confectionery while having the audacity to not even be in his office anyway. He was almost certainly with a Ministry official again trying to convince those fools of the Dark Lord's return.

But there was a chance he could be at Order headquarters.

He tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace. How he loathed Christmas. It was at times of Muggle celebrations that the Death Eaters grew more restless for sport.

He stepped through the grate into Black's kitchen. The first thing he noted, with despair and more than a little frustration, was the lack of a Headmaster – in fact, the lack of anyone. The second thing was the pungent smell of burning. It was easy to pinpoint the source – apparently inside the large oven against the far wall. It seemed Black's first Christmas back in his old family house was going to be a sorry affair after all. He smiled at the tendrils of smoke drifting through the iron door.

Out in the hallway, he heard the soft hum of voices seeping from the drawing room. He swept past the snoozing portrait of Black's mother and thrust open the door. Inside, Black looked up from a raised glass; Lupin, standing by a tinsel-bordered fireplace, followed suit. Snape was on the verge of asking on Dumbledore's whereabouts when a creak sounded from a large armchair, its high back to the door. Hoping it was occupied by Dumbledore, he stepped forward. But to his annoyance it turned out merely to be the Potter boy, who was now staring back with an expression that divulged mutual feelings.

He turned to Black. 'Where's Dumbledore?'

Black glared. 'Would be nice if you knocked, Snape. We were having such a wonderful time till you barged in.'

'My apologies for interrupting your – ah – leisure time.' Snape regarded him coolly. 'Of which I am certain you have precious little otherwise. But not everybody can neglect their duties merely because it is Christmas. Or any other time of the year, for that matter.'

Black bristled visibly; satisfied, Snape turned to Lupin. 'Where is he? Is he here?'

'No,' said Lupin with a trace of concern. 'Is it important?'

Before he could answer, Black cut in, plainly eager to avoid chitchat. 'Isn't he at Hogwarts?'

'Yes, of course he is,' jeered Snape, 'that is why I am here looking for him.'

It didn't escape his notice Black seemed to be expending a lot of effort in refraining from a retort. He clearly wanted him to leave so they could resume their festivities. Snape suppressed delight – his trip had not been utterly wasted after all.

'I don't know where he might be,' said Lupin from his place by the fire. 'But he did say he would come by—'

'But we're not sure when,' Black said hurriedly. 'We'll send him straight on to the school. So you might as well wait for him there, eh?'

Snape let his triumph show. Yes – Black was so eager for his presence not to spoil his Christmas, he was making a poor job of hiding it – undoubtedly because his precious godson was spending it with him. He felt his smirk broaden at the thought of Black's already ruined Christmas busy smouldering in the kitchen.

'But he'll be here soon, Sirius,' Lupin put in. 'Severus might as well wait.' He turned to him. 'If it's important?'

Lupin was handing it to him on a plate. To turn down his invitation to further upset Black's happy little scene would simply be rude. After all, it was Christmas. 'The consequences may be dire, I fear, if he is not informed at the earliest opportunity of what I've learned.' In reality, a few hours' wait would still allow for the necessary measures to ensure the Muggle sport would be less of an event than expected – but he could happily spend all day rubbing Black's face in the fact he at least was doing something useful for the Order.

'Well, why don't you wait in the kitchen, then?' Black spilled firewhisky with his impatient gesture. 'That's the only fireplace in the house hooked up. You can catch him as soon as he arrives – if it's that important,' he added, seeming to smell the lie; because of his dog senses, perhaps. But then Black himself reeked – of desperation.

'Oh, I would – but I may be overcome by the fumes before his arrival.'

Black looked at him as though he were delirious. 'Fumes? What fumes?'

'From your – ah – Christmas dinner, I suppose. Or what remains of it.' At Black's confusion, he added with a smirk, 'I believe your dear house-elf has left you a present.'

When comprehension dawned, Black erupted into fury. He slammed his glass down on a table, splashing its contents onto the varnished surface. 'Kreacher! KREACHER!' He stormed past and out of the room.

Perhaps Christmas did have its merits after all.

Happy visions of Black's furious ranting in the kitchen were interrupted by the sound of attempted laughter. 'I told him it was a mistake letting his mother's elf prepare it.'

Snape watched as a genial smile stole over Lupin's face, directed at him. He turned from it with a scowl. How he despised the werewolf's insistence on treating him as an old friend he'd been reunited with, even to the point of overlooking his intentional barbs and insults. His resentment deepened whenever he caught sight of that insufferable amiability.

Lupin had persisted in inflicting his unwanted presence on him over the past weeks. He had seen through all the werewolf's pathetic pretexts. Lupin had never before sought his views on any Order affairs, least of all the most trivial. Snape had no opinions on which cakes Molly Weasley might bring to the next meeting, nor did he care a whit how the newest members were getting on. And never had Lupin given the slightest sign of prior interest in the intricacies of the Wolfsbane Potion. As soon as he'd begun suggesting games of wizard chess, Snape had decided enough was enough.

But to his horror he had discovered that warding his doors and refraining from answering on his free evenings had failed to repel him. Lupin had simply begun using the Floo instead. When he had emerged from the fireplace during Occlumency with Potter, Snape had barely been able to conceal his rage at the stupid werewolf's carelessness.

But then the appearance of Potter's mysterious resolve in their last Occlumency lesson of the term had made him think again. He had decided it would be more prudent to turn Lupin's involvement to his advantage, even if that was only making sure Lupin kept Potter's mouth shut around Black. If he pushed Lupin too far away, there was the danger that the werewolf himself would go blabbing to Black, whimpering about the fresh loss of his friend.

So he would continue to make the Wolfsbane Potion, just as he had two years ago when he had thought it wise to keep Lupin close, and he would tolerate his need for inclusion, however grating it was that he took that inclusion for granted. But it would not come without limits. Lupin's disappointment when he'd set them out had been nauseating; it was as though he had been handed restricted visiting rights to a child – or to a prisoner.

He wondered what Black might make of it all – Lupin electing to spend time with his old enemy. But of course that was not how Lupin viewed him now; he knew it whenever he caught his eye. In fact, the consistency of it still managed to catch him unawares and draw him back to its meaning just when he'd succeeded in forgetting for a while. Damn that headmaster. It was simply Dumbledore's foolish insistence on letting the truth be known to those affected and blow the consequences. The Dark Lord, he realised, had been counting on just that.

He still could not comprehend what the Dark Lord was planning by letting this truth out – he felt it was more than a mere test of his loyalties. Did the Dark Lord really think he would permit knowledge of this to affect him and give away his true role for Dumbledore? There seemed to be something else to all of this, and it was unnerving that he still could not put his finger on what it might be.

He was pulled back to the present by the whiff of firewhisky. A glass was being brandished under his nose. Lupin was standing too close, and he was wearing that familiar, stomach-churning, look. 'Oh, come on, Severus. It's Christmas!'

Funny that Lupin believed this statement would make him more inclined to accept the proffered drink. But there remained the need to play to the werewolf's belief of being kept in the loop. He smiled grimly as he took it. If nothing else it might take some of the edge off.

At the sound of a book slamming, he was recalled to the presence of the Potter boy – another reminder of his annoyance toward Lupin, this time because he now had to deal with the boy's continual prying since the werewolf had wagged his tongue. Still in the armchair by the fire, Potter was shifting uncomfortably under his gaze, the closed book on his lap. Clearly, Black was not the only one willing him to leave. In fact, it was Lupin's blatant lack of sharing that sentiment that bothered Snape the most.

He peered at the book the boy was gripping; he couldn't make out a title. 'Studying on Christmas Day, Potter? I had no idea you were so backward in your schoolwork that you feel the need to play catch up at a time such as this.'

'It's not a textbook. It's not a book at all.' Potter glared. 'If you must know, it's a photo album.' With a fixed gaze of defiance, the boy yanked the album back open.

He caught a glimpse of broomsticks held aloft, sweeping the inverted sky victoriously while a Quidditch cup glistened among a row of restless feet. Snape dared not pursue the subject. It was bad enough being forced to see a virtual replica of James Potter on an almost daily basis, but to have images of the actual one paraded in front of him filled him with cold dread.

Before he could stop himself, though, his infuriation had got the better of him. 'Make the most of it, since that will be the closest you will get to seeing your father again.'

The boy's head snapped up, revealing an expression of sheer horror. 'Why? What do you mean?'

Lupin piped up. 'Severus.' At least he had finally removed that smug grin.

'What does he mean?' Potter looked to Lupin, who promptly reinstated the smile, though not as confidently. 'Nothing, Harry, of course everything's –' he glanced up '– everything's fine – isn't it, Severus?'

Snape hadn't actually given his remark much thought before he had said it. But now that he saw Potter had taken it to mean something had happened to his father, he found it quite a welcome surprise. However, the werewolf still needed pacifying. 'I merely meant it would be foolish to jeopardise an already precarious position in order to pander to the whims of a teenager.'

The boy seemed somewhat appeased. 'But after the war.'

Snape observed the untouched firewhisky as he swirled it around his glass. 'I suppose – if he survives.'

'Severus!' Lupin caught his eye. 'May I have a word, please?' He gestured with his head to the door.

'He is all right, isn't he?' implored Potter of Lupin.

'Absolutely fine, Harry,' replied Lupin with conviction. He glanced at Snape.

A lecture from the werewolf – a perfect way to round off Christmas. 'I'm not staying anyway.' He was about to get rid of the glass on a nearby table, but caught sight of Potter studying him anxiously. He hastily disposed of the contents first. 'Don't work too hard during your holiday, Potter. But I'm certain you won't.'

As soon as he was out in the hallway, Lupin began. 'Just what do you think you're doing?' He glanced back into the room; Potter remained hidden in the large chair, no doubt captivated once again by the photographs before him. The boy never did have a long attention span. 'I've done my bit,' said Lupin. 'I did what you wanted – and I expect you to at least not toy with Harry's feelings for your own pleasure.'

'Believe me, pleasure is the last thing I am getting from this situation.' Despite this, he felt his lips quirk upwards – the firewhisky was making itself known, lulling him with a pleasant glow that filled his empty stomach. He hadn't eaten since yesterday, before the Death Eaters' plans for Christmas had emerged.

'That doesn't give you the right to upset Harry.'

'It isn't my fault if the boy misunderstands.'

'Don't give me that. You knew exactly how he'd interpret it.'

'And tell me how I can answer his idiotic questions with any accuracy? You have succeeded in making sure it is impossible.'

'You said he'd never see his father again.'

'Well, isn't it true? The boy is labouring under delusions, thanks to you.'

'If you're so concerned about him being deluded, why don't you tell him the whole truth?' He checked his voice and Potter again, then pressed his forehead with his palm. 'This isn't a day for arguing.' While Lupin dealt with his headache, a knock from the kitchen followed by a screech, distinctly elven in origin, reminded Snape of Black's. Lupin looked up. 'Can't you at least try to spare a thought for his feelings?'

Perhaps it was the firewhisky, but Snape found himself in a mood somewhere between mock horror and amusement. 'Surely you don't suggest I lie to him? That the boy should be further deceived?'

Lupin appeared to sag. 'I don't know what else to do, as you insist on not telling him the truth.'

'Very well, then. Let's hope you don't make further slip-ups – I refuse to correct more of them at my expense.'

This seemed to reinvigorate the werewolf. 'And how would it be at your expense if he knew the truth?'

The firewhisky in Snape's belly was showing its true colours and souring. 'You know what our naive little celebrity would think.' Not to mention the Dark Lord's little test, whatever the truth of that was.

Lupin stared as he filled the silence with a few angry breaths. 'He should be happy today.' He was nearing the end of his lecture. 'Christmas is a time for family.'

'No, he is not! I will not entertain it!'

When he thought about it later that day, he wondered at his outburst, and put it down to the sourness of the firewhisky and the werewolf's breath.

Lupin's head had already turned. Snape followed it and saw Potter standing by the chair, a hand on its arm, giving every impression he had heard his pronouncement. This time he had caught the boy in the act. 'Poking your nose in where it isn't wanted again, Potter? Prying into things you don't understand. One day it will be your undoing.' He held the boy's insolent gaze. 'Be careful you don't learn too much, and find no way of giving the knowledge back.'

'That's enough.'

Lupin's voice came from behind, and Snape stopped. He hadn't noticed he'd been creeping towards the boy.

'My dad is all right?' Potter was looking beyond him.

'He's fine, Sev— Harry.'

There was a time when Snape might have found the mistake amusing. But not even the firewhisky could stop the cold that fell over him now. Potter found nothing funny in it, either. He turned his father's features on him and arranged them into a glare of injustice. In the icy silence, Snape saw that the glass he'd left earlier was now next to him again. He had failed to empty it, and he took it from the table. So this was what Christmas ultimately came down to: wringing the last dregs in search of – what? – inspiration?

'Is he still here?' Black pushed past, Lupin at his heels. 'I don't remember saying you could help yourself, Snape.' He was already by the drinks pouring himself a fresh one.

'I gave it him.' Lupin's voice was low as though they were still in conference in the hallway. But Snape noticed it was less certain now, as if he was more afraid of Black than of him.

'Did you?' Having failed to stir Snape with his angry glare, he directed it at Lupin. 'Spending a lot of time at the school, lately, aren't you?'

Snape bit back a remark about Lupin's lost teaching job. Potter was making movements. His mind, as readable as always even without eye contact, was shifting from disquiet to a hushed impatience as he watched his godfather.

Lupin mumbled something about Dumbledore.

'Can't you talk with Dumbledore here?'

'Tired of being kept at bay, Black?' He was pleased to see Black got both meanings. It had him off the scent, at least. 'Finished sweeping up your meal?'

True to form, he emitted a low growl in reply. 'Bloody house-elf. I'll get my hands around his scrawny neck…'

'It doesn't matter.'

Snape watched Potter carefully. He was getting ready to make himself the centre of attention again.

The boy shrugged and made a feeble smile. 'I mean, I don't mind about dinner. Really. I'm happy just to be here with you and Remus. It's the best Christmas I've ever had, and there's nothing that can spoil it.'

Black seemed consumed with a sickening pride. Snape saw his glance at the chair next to Potter, where the photo album lay. Potter saw it too. And Snape knew then that the boy would tell Black. Not today. But he knew it, as sure as he knew Lupin would become a wolf at the next full moon.

'Dumbledore called through the Floo.'

'What? When?'

Black took a long drink as though he hadn't heard. He looked back as if surprised to find Snape still there. 'While I was in the kitchen. I said you wanted to see him – at the school.'

'Tut, tut. And you have the nerve to accuse me of lying to him.'

This roused him. 'Of course you do! Dumbledore's mad to trust you!'

'I'll be sure to pass on your flattering remark.'

'Just go away, Snape. Dumbledore might be bothering some Ministry official on Christmas Day… That doesn't mean you can go around bothering people too.'

'Oh, but where's the pleasure otherwise?' He placed the empty glass on the table. 'Well, as enjoyable as this has been, I can't stand around chatting all day – some of us have important matters to attend to.'

'That's right, you slither back to the snakes in your dungeons, Snape,' Black said as he was about to turn. '_Reformed_, eh? Hah!' He downed the rest of his drink; he seemed already well on the way to inebriation. Snape didn't imagine there would be a happy Christmas dinner today in the Black house.

'Reformed, you say? Re-formed?' He should leave now, before he said too much. The firewhisky he himself had drunk was still tugging at the edges. But he found it difficult to pull away from the spectacle of Black deliberately ruining his first real Christmas in years. 'There is plenty I could say about that, Black.'

'Then why don't you, Severus?'

Snape shot Lupin a lethal glare. Funny how the werewolf had stirred only at his words. He sent a sneer around the room: at Black, his face red and not just from anger; at Lupin, now twitching pathetically with remorse and plainly searching for something else to say. And at Potter, the usual vacant look betraying the arrogant desire to tell all he knew to his dear godfather and damn the consequences. 'Happy Christmas.' He swept out of the room to the sound of silence.


	6. Delicious Irony

_**6. Delicious irony**_

'And I just think she's too young to go on these things.' Remus negotiated his way around a large flower, which seemed rather too interested in sniffing his robes, as he followed Snape through the greenhouse. 'What do you think?'

Snape turned and almost knocked into him. 'I think the afternoon is getting on, Lupin,' he said with a glare before striding past. 'She said the Alihotsy cuttings would be in this greenhouse.' He went peering down another row with an impatient frown.

'Professor Sprout?' Remus waved his wand. '_Accio_ Alihotsy.'

A basket rose up from beside a group of saplings dotted with tiny reddening fruit like pimples. Snape seized it as it flew over. 'Well, I suppose that will be enough,' he said after examining its green bounty.

Some movement down the far end caught Remus's eye. Three or four plants, huddled in a line, were hovering several inches off the ground and wriggling in their pots as though about to break free. He quickly cancelled his spell, and they fell back down, leaves rustling furiously as if rearranging themselves after their ordeal.

'Just look at how badly the Abysinnian shrivelfigs have been pruned,' said Snape at a cluster of bushes by his arm.

'The children have to learn.'

'The children have to learn dead wood must be removed if the plant is to endure.'

'Yes. Aren't they—'

Snape was already at the door and heading towards the vegetable patch. 'Secure the door, Lupin. There are Mandrakes in there.'

Remus tried again to engage him as he swept onward. 'I was just saying – about the new Order member – Nymphadora Tonks.' They climbed the stairs to the castle entrance. 'She is getting a lot of assignments.' He paused to hold open the door for a pair of students. By the time the fourth group of children had passed through with embarrassed mumbles of thanks, Snape was gone. Remus looked around and glimpsed his black robes sweeping down the steps to the dungeons. He hurried to catch up. 'I mean, I realise she's invaluable as a Metamorphmagus,' he said as they reached his office. 'But—' He backed away as Snape raised an arm and pointed a finger across him.

'Fetch that book,' Snape said as he carried on towards his desk.

'Don't you agree it's too many?' Remus picked up the book from the small table huddled by the wall. 'For a beginner?'

Snape frowned up at him distractedly. He looked down at the book Remus had deposited on the desk. 'What's this? Why have you brought me _Seventy-one Cures for Warts and All_?'

'I —'

'That one.' He pointed a long finger, and continued to stare down it until Remus pulled out _Potions For The Perspicacious_ from the shelf.

'So —' Remus tried as Snape flipped through the pages.

'Let me see, let me see,' he muttered at a mass of scribbled lines down the margin. 'Is it possible … a counterpoison within the poison?'

'Poison?'

Snape lifted his head and eyed him suspiciously. 'Doesn't Black need checking up on?'

'Well…'

Snape turned to study a heavily annotated diagram and put out a hand across the desk in the direction of three bottles. His fingers wrapped around the closest. But it didn't seem to be the bottle he had wanted – he evidently expected it to be stoppered, as the other two were, because he brought it towards him so swiftly that a quarter of its contents had spilled across his robes before he looked up from the book. 'Damn it!' Something eel-like slithered down his front, leaving a track in the cloudy grey gunge.

He pulled out a cloth and wiped.

'Why don't you – where's your—?' But Snape's wand was right there, poking from his pocket as he swabbed; and it occurred to Remus that he hadn't seen him use it once today. His wand had been there all along, while he, Remus, had been summoning and locking and fetching. But Snape hadn't just been trying to get rid of him – there was something else going on here.

Snape was still trying to mop up the spill with the cloth and a deepening frown.

'Well, I ought to get going.'

Back in the entrance hall, Remus turned up the marble staircase. He found Dumbledore in the corridor outside his office, his travelling cloak on, talking to Professor Flitwick. He noticed Remus as he approached. 'Would you excuse me?' he said to Flitwick, who turned to Remus, nodded solemnly and departed without a word – Flitwick wasn't in the Order, but he knew Remus was, and took its aura of secrecy seriously. But Remus wasn't here on Order matters.

Dumbledore welcomed him with a warm smile. 'Ah, are you paying us another visit?'

'I need your opinion on something.'

Seeing his concern, Dumbledore steered him to a window. It overlooked the lawn far below – somewhere to the left were the greenhouses where he and Snape had just been. 'It's probably nothing,' Remus said. He hoped it wasn't. 'It's Severus. He's – he's not using his magic.'

He described what he had failed to notice while he had been chattering on. As he talked, Dumbledore's initial concern eased away little by little, until finally Remus could no longer ignore it. 'Something's wrong.'

'No, I don't think so.' Dumbledore was smiling outright now. 'Quite the opposite, I would say.'

'But … he's weak, isn't he? Why else wouldn't he use his magic?'

Dumbledore turned a considered gaze on him. 'I'm sure you know the magical core resides in the soul? So you see, the magic is not quite his.'

'You mean it's … James's magic? All of it?'

'That is a tricky one.' Dumbledore refastened his cloak, which had worked itself loose at his neck. 'Some magic comes from the heart as well as the soul.' He frowned in thought. 'I believe the Ministry still has a room devoted to the question.'

'But – he's choosing not to use it? Isn't that…?' Snape wasn't here, but still Remus was loath to use the word foolish about him.

'It's simply a matter of comfort,' said Dumbledore as though he were explaining a choice in sofas. 'He finds it easier to reject this part of him sometimes.' His slight smile was not directed at Remus.

'How can that be good?'

'Because rejection is better than denial. It is some kind of acknowledgement. And that is after all the first step to acceptance.' His eyes shone as he looked out across the school grounds. The January sky was a bracing blue.

'But he's rejecting James.'

Dumbledore turned back and regarded him, as though Remus's lingering concern were surprising. 'He's consciously electing not to use James's magic,' he said. 'For now. When he feels it's safe to do so. But in time this will make it easier, because he is asserting his control over it.'

'By not using it?'

'That will come.' He saw Remus's scepticism. 'But I think there is something else at play. The test, you see – the test that was used to prove he does indeed have James's magical core. It involved the signature passed down by James.'

'Passed down? You mean like an inheritance?'

'Harry inherited something of his father's magic.'

Of course. All wizards did. He recalled Harry's Patronus, the subconscious manifestation of James's Animagus form.

'I'm afraid it was necessary to acquire some discreetly in order to undertake the test.' Dumbledore did not offer to explain how he had done this. Remus did not agree with all of his methods in everything, but neither did he envy his difficult position in the war with Voldemort.

'I see – so it's Harry too? It's Harry he thinks he's rejecting too?' Remus remembered Snape's sudden protest at Christmas when he had seemed to read too much into his reference to family.

'This link to Harry – the fact it was his magic that confirmed everything – it's something more that must be accepted.'

'But he will – he has to. He can't carry on like this. He'll get into trouble.'

'No, no. Not Severus.' Dumbledore's confidence returned. 'He understands control comes with use.'

'I didn't see that today.'

Dumbledore looked at him thoughtfully. 'But I think it is only with you – because you understand.'

'Do I?' Remus didn't think he did understand all of this, not really.

Dumbledore saw his doubt; he smiled. 'Thank you for coming to me. But don't worry. He's simply distancing himself as his way of taking control. Severus won't let this affect him – not when it's important.' He sounded certain; in fact he almost seemed cheered by Remus's news. 'First step to acceptance,' he said, and landed a confident hand on Remus's shoulder.

-x-

Now unlocked, the paint-blistered door creaked open slowly onto the room as if caught in a draught. Shivering, Harry took a few steps towards the doorway, away from the shaft of light from the ceiling. The corridor beyond appeared swathed in darkness; there was no one there.

Suddenly, he felt a dull blow to his side as if he'd been elbowed…

Harry started, looking around. Next to him, Hermione was scribbling the last of her notes on Binns's History of Magic lesson, while the rest of the class were gathering their things and leaving. He rubbed his scar as the dream faded.

Casting him a reproving glance, she stuffed a hefty stack of parchment into her bag. 'You fell asleep again. Now, I _know_ it isn't just Professor Binns's class, because yesterday you did it in Professor Flitwick's class as well. So – what's up? Aren't you getting enough sleep?' She peered in concern as he clawed at his scar.

At the front of the room, Binns's ghost left through the board as usual. Harry picked up his bag. 'It's this Occlumency,' he explained as he followed her into the corridor. 'I'm trying to practise, but it's really hard. I'm trying to clear my mind in classes, but then I end up falling asleep sometimes. It's just too – relaxing – you know?' He sighed. It seemed it was a fine balance between clearing the mind and dropping off altogether. Not that his pounding head let him do that very often these days.

'Well, just practise outside of classes, then.'

'I really need to do this, Hermione. I need all the practice I can get. I was so lazy with it last term. Voldemort could have found out about my dad already while I was just messing about.'

She had an 'I told you so' look on her face, but said nothing. She watched him scratch his scar. 'Is it hurting again?'

He pried his hand away in irritation. 'It seems to be making it worse the more I practise. Maybe I'm doing it all wrong.' He gazed miserably at the floor as they walked to Transfiguration.

They caught up with Ron on the stairs. 'I forgot to ask,' he said to Harry, 'did you tell Padfoot about Prongs?'

Harry was still getting used to referring to his dad by his old nickname. They had decided it was a sensible precaution, as they were already using Sirius's, in case they were overheard. 'No,' he said, 'I didn't get a chance. Lupin was there all the time.'

He didn't know when he would get another chance. But Occlumency practice was the most important thing right now. He kept it up for the rest of the day, successfully avoiding drifting off and breaking Hermione's concentration in class.

His headache finally released him from its grip at dinner – just in time for the first Occlumency lesson of the new term. And he felt buoyed up again when, just half an hour into the lesson, he had managed to repel two of Snape's Legilimency spells in the space of a few minutes.

Snape, however, looked far from happy. He kept peering at his own wand after a spell had gone well (from Harry's point of view) when he thought Harry wasn't looking.

He seemed genuinely perturbed, but Harry was revelling in the feeling of achievement. It would only destroy the moment if he informed Snape it was down to the practice he'd been putting in since their last lesson the previous term. He felt his confidence growing each time Snape spent less and less time in his head.

Finally, after shutting Snape out with relative ease from a memory of yesterday's Divination, Harry recovered in time to see him putting away his wand. He peered at Harry from his usual place behind his desk. Between them sat the Pensieve he had filled earlier with his memories. 'We will continue this next lesson.'

Harry started and looked at the wall clock. 'But there's another twenty minutes left at least.'

Snape raised an eyebrow. 'Why, Potter, I had no idea you were having so much fun.'

Feeling himself reddening, Harry stiffened his gaze. 'Dumbledore thinks it's important I do this properly.'

'Indeed. That is why we will continue this next time. We will do it properly then.'

'What do you mean?'

Snape had turned to his desk; now he raised his eyes in a glare.

'What do you mean, _sir_?' repeated Harry.

Snape did not reply straight away. He seemed to be considering his answer, and Harry shifted impatiently as the black eyes studied him.

'I've been easy on you today,' he said at last, 'to aid you into getting back into it. I knew the absence of practice over the break meant we would have to start again from scratch.'

Harry knew this wasn't true; Snape had been doing exactly the same as before. In fact, he had been pushing harder into his mind since Harry had been finding it easier to repel him. Snape had never 'been easy' on him in his life. He felt like telling him this; that it was his own practising outside their lessons that had made it easier. But then he'd have to admit he'd never practised at all last term. Let the git stew, he thought.

But then, he considered, maybe Snape was wondering whether it was instead _him_ who wasn't up to it with his Legilimency – maybe that was why he wanted to bring an early end to the lesson? The thought calmed him down. There was something oddly freeing about getting one over on Snape.

If he was going to go for it, it was now. He chewed on his lip. 'What you said at Christmas,' he began. He had a bad feeling when he saw the beginnings of a sneer, but he pressed on. 'I just wondered … if my dad's OK.' He braved Snape's condescending glare. Harry hadn't yet put away his wand, and he felt it grow slippery in his hand as he waited for Snape to goad him again into thinking his father was in some kind of trouble.

'He is fine,' said Snape at last in a flat voice. His mouth was squeezed as tightly as Harry had ever seen it.

Harry hadn't realised he had been holding his breath until his surprise at what Snape had said had died into relief. 'It's just that…' he said when he could speak again, and feeling he was now on a roll, 'I haven't heard anything. You know, like a letter or something.'

Snape's eyes widened. 'A letter?'

Harry's heart plummeted. He felt a stab of humiliation.

'You expect important work to be interrupted in order to write _letters_?'

'Never mind.' He stared at a corner of the desk. He didn't want to listen to Snape's mocking when all he wanted was to see or hear from his dad.

But after a moment Snape moved, drawing Harry's eyes back.

'A letter can easily be intercepted,' said Snape, his appalled expression gone, replaced with his usual sour look. 'It would be dangerous and foolish.' Suddenly something blazed behind his eyes. 'Not that your father wasn't more than capable of bringing danger through his foolishness.'

Harry barely heard this last insult. His gaze fell. 'Of course.' He had known it would be too dangerous, but he had hoped that maybe… He lifted his head. 'If he gave it you, though. I mean, by owl might be risky, but—'

'Absolutely not!' Snape growled. 'I suppose you would like to endanger me by having such a thing discovered on me?'

Judging by the viciousness of Snape's glare, and the way his mouth was twitching, Harry knew it was no use pursuing the subject of correspondence. He sensed Snape would most likely throw any letters from his father on the fire anyway. 'He does ask about me, though, doesn't he?' he asked, feeling a lump forming in his throat.

Snape snorted. 'You really think there is the opportunity for mindless chitchat?'

Harry swallowed around the dryness. 'Forget it,' he mumbled and turned to go. He was at the door when he remembered something else; he turned back. 'Last term, sir. When you said my dad had forgotten about the Fidelius Charm. He forgot about that week? I mean, I know the Fidelius was done the week before, so whatever happened to him, it made him forget the past week?'

Snape's eyes were flaring again. 'Haven't I told you before – I do not know what happened to him.'

'I know that. I'm asking about when he forgot – how much did he forget?'

'A lot,' replied Snape swiftly.

'How much is a lot?' Harry pursued. 'A week – a month, a year…'

Snape thinned his lips. 'Years, Potter, years.'

Harry felt the chill of shock. 'How permanent is it?'

Snape sneered, his cold black gaze fixed on him. 'Either something is permanent or it is not, Potter.'

'I mean, can he get it back somehow?'

There was something unsettling about the curl touching Snape's mouth. He seemed almost pleased with the question. 'No,' he said. 'Never.'

Harry stared without seeing him.

Snape turned away. 'I have things to do, so if you don't mind.'

Harry left Snape's office in a daze. Could it be true his dad had forgotten so much?

If it was, it would go some way to explain why he had heard nothing from him in all these years. He felt angry, and betrayed, that Lupin had not told him about this. Instead, he'd had to find out from Snape that his dad did not remember him, that his dad did not know him. He must have forgotten everything, everything that mattered – his wife, his son, the reason he was a Death Eater spy.

The thoughts plagued him as he made his way to Gryffindor Tower, intent on clearing his mind so as not to lose the achievements he had made in Occlumency. It somehow felt even more important to practise hard.

A few yards from the portrait of the Fat Lady snoring fitfully over the quiet corridor he came to a stop. It was suddenly obvious why he had not heard from him – not only did his dad not know him, he did not even know Harry had learned he was alive. He still thought Harry believed he was dead. He did not know he was trying to protect him.

It was Snape that was preventing him from knowing, he decided as he watched the Fat Lady twitch in her sleep. Snape was his only contact in the Order; he was taking his dad's information to Dumbledore and giving nothing back. It seemed Snape wanted only to keep Harry and him apart.

Harry needed to let him know he was no longer alone. He wanted him to know he was doing Occlumency to keep him safe. He had to give him hope by showing him he was backing him all the way in every risk he was taking to bring down Voldemort.

He would not endanger him with a letter. But he had to do something.

-x-

Snape gazed down into his glass at the crimson liquid glistening in the soft light of the fire.

He had not realised precisely how tense, how on his guard, he had been these past weeks – these past months. Not until now, since his private audience with the Dark Lord half an hour ago in which he had been 'informed' of the Dark Lord's gift to him fourteen years ago.

It seemed he had finally passed his test when he had responded by confessing he had already been informed by Dumbledore some months earlier. It had, of course, been too trifling a matter for him to have bothered his master with. The Dark Lord had been pleased with this explanation.

'Ah…' sighed Lucius from the armchair nearby. He stretched out his legs toward the fire that pressed its heat into the cold Malfoy parlour. 'Just like the old days, eh, Severus – the ball-and-chain out somewhere with her sister for the evening. No doubt spending more than a few Galleons in the process,' he added with a grimace. 'Detestable woman, Bellatrix,' he said, staring at the crackling flames as though he wished she were in them. 'All those years in Azkaban and she emerges even more self-important than before – as if she's the Dark Lord's new favourite.' He shifted his attention from the fire. 'You won't tell Narcissa I said that, will you? She's rather fond of her dear sister.' He spat the familial reference with a particular sort of bitterness, with the supercilious edge only the Malfoys were able to achieve.

'Your secret is safe with me, Lucius,' replied Snape.

A mischievous smile touched Malfoy's lips. 'And yours with me, Severus.'

Snape surveyed him over his wine. 'What secret would that be?'

Lucius showed a few of his pearly white teeth. 'Do you think the Dark Lord would tell you and not me?' Grey eyes danced with the flames as he sipped his wine.

So he also knew. Snape held his gaze with an empty look. The Dark Lord had been talkative tonight.

'Oh, don't be so coy,' Lucius said, plainly misinterpreting the silence. 'The Dark Lord would not have gone to so much trouble for just any Death Eater. Not even for certain of the most favoured of us – not mentioning any names.' He looked more alive than ever in the firelight; his face glowed with the wine he had drunk.

In acknowledgement of the compliment, Snape presented him with a modest smile.

'It could have been worse,' continued Lucius. 'The only people around to use could have been Squibs or worthless Muggles.'

_In that case_, reflected Snape, ensuring his thoughts were not reflected towards Lucius, _our pragmatical Lord would have simply left me for dead_.

Lucius leaned towards him across the fire. 'You mustn't think anything of not being told sooner. I suspect it was my dear sister-in-law who placed doubts about you in his mind. What a shame I wasn't able to spare the gold to keep her out of Azkaban…' He lifted his eyebrows theatrically. 'But then,' he sighed, sitting back and drawing his eyes back to the fire, 'she and her sister are busy spending it now she is out.'

Snape gave him a moment to convert Bellatrix into ashes.

He turned back purged, beaming. 'But the irony! The delicious irony of your … situation.' He did not seem to notice the irony of his describing it so benignly. 'I would have given a thousand Galleons to see the look on Harry Potter's face as he was told.' He laughed.

Snape offered up a more appropriate smile to Lucius's grinning face; it shared the joke on his behalf so that he was free to think.

But he had already realised from his audience with the Dark Lord earlier that it was assumed the boy had been told. What the Dark Lord did not know was that Dumbledore could be convinced to keep secrets – as long as he in turn could keep his spy in the Dark Lord's circle.

'Were you there?' asked Lucius, eyes wide with eagerness.

'Unfortunately not. The old coot told the boy and me separately.'

'Ah, shame.' Lucius settled back into the plush armchair, perching his glass on his stomach. 'I have a Pensieve somewhere – used to be my grandfather's. You could have shared the memory with me.'

Snape raised his eyebrows. 'Perhaps I would not have wanted to share such a treasured moment as that surely would have been.'

This sent Lucius into another happy fit. Wine rolled into waves as his belly shook. Removing his drink to the safety of the table at his side, he rested his head, blond hair spilling across the cushion, and gazed up contentedly. 'But think of the possibilities! I'm sure you already have?' He cast him a sly glance. 'The "boy who lived" is young, he's highly impressionable. Any well-deserved remarks you send his way would hurt him a hundredfold now.' He shook his head at him in awe. 'I know you've always wanted to make the brat's life intolerable, but this… You can really twist the knife in now, can't you?' His wild gaze betrayed the imagined scenes he was indulging in.

Snape watched his mind working. Perhaps it had been remiss of him, but he had not given thought to any such 'possibilities'. He had preferred not to think about the idea of the Potter boy knowing. But he had to admit there was a certain truth in what Lucius said. Potter was indeed far too forgiving when it came to his father, and taken in with romanticised notions of him. Snape found himself wondering whether he might have been too hasty in opting to keep this from the boy. Perhaps the awkwardness of the resulting situation would have had some compensations after all.

'The boy's father jinxed you about a bit, didn't he, at school?'

'He tried. He had a general feeling he was a cut above the rest of us.'

'So –' Lucius was pouring himself another glass and replenishing Snape's before he had a chance to object, '– the ultimate revenge, isn't it? Being forced to give life to you, whom he once considered beneath him, and now used as a weapon against his own son! Just priceless!'

Lucius was luxuriating in his own thoughts again. The grey eyes were on Snape but not seeing him. Snape fixed a smirk to his lips; the fresh wine hitting his stomach seemed to burn as strongly as the fire before them.

'Tell me,' said Lucius after a gulp of his own, 'did James Potter have any … special abilities, do you know?'

Snape studied him. 'How do you mean?'

'Well, I'm sure he didn't, the arrogant prat.' He made a derisive noise. 'But … well, any magical abilities he might have had could have been passed on to you.'

'I'm not sure I follow you, Lucius.'

'I mean, such as,' Lucius fingered his glass, frowning in thought, 'I don't know … resistance to the Imperius Curse? One never knows when that may come in handy. Or some kind of interesting wandless magic, or…'

Snape snorted. James Potter's boundless arrogance would have nullified any chance of mastering even the most basic forms of wandless magic.

'…Animagus Transfiguration…'

Snape paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. He quickly took a sip before Lucius could notice him falter.

'…well, not that you'd know that anyway,' Lucius continued. 'Undoubtedly, he'd have been unregistered – like Sirius Black. Keeping a low profile, that one, isn't he?'

'Dumbledore likes to keep his pets on a tight leash.'

'Still – might be worth a try?'

Under Lucius's watchful eye Snape drew a careful breath. 'James Potter was a big-headed imbecile. His special ability was to spend every waking moment in childish attempts to gain the attention of his peers. Indeed, his biggest ability was to think himself special.'

Lucius grinned heartily. 'To the Dark Lord,' he said, raising what little remained of his drink. 'I would truly have missed your company, Severus, if it hadn't been for his timely and glorious intervention.'

Snape mirrored his movements as a show of gratitude for the sentiment. He only pretended to drink, nevertheless; the stifling heat of the fire was pooling with the alcohol he had already ingested and turning his stomach.

After Lucius freshened his own glass, Snape politely declined a refill. 'I regret I must get back. I have to rise early in the morning.'

Lucius rose from his chair with him. 'Dumbledore keeps you on a short leash, too, doesn't he?'

'One must keep up appearances, Lucius.'

If anyone empathised with that sentiment, it was Lucius Malfoy. The nod of understanding was brief, like an unwanted reflex. Snape registered his seeming reluctance with interest, but then the full Malfoy air was back. 'You know, I heard from a little bird you're giving the boy private lessons in Potions? I do hope you didn't think of it just so you could give the poor boy a hard time.' A playful smile tugged at his mouth.

'The boy is even more useless at Potions than his father was,' replied Snape, who surmised the little bird's name was Draco. 'It wasn't hard to convince that buffoon of a headmaster they were needed. Of course –' he gave Lucius a meaningful glance as he took a pinch of Floo powder from its container on the mantelpiece, '– I make sure my time is being well spent.'

Grey eyes gleamed with mirth. 'Oh, I'm sure you do, old friend. I'm sure you do.'

He spent the next day mulling over what Lucius had said. Some things had promise. He had no desire to work the big-headed imbecile's particular brand of vacuous magic. But there was one thing he could put into immediate practice: Harry Potter may not know the full truth, but the boy did know a half-truth he could use to his advantage.

The bane of his life at Hogwarts – apart from the boy himself, of course – was Potter's accessory in crime. Whenever mischief was caused, it was sure to be behind it, with Potter hidden within its folds. Ever since Dumbledore had foolishly presented it to the boy on arriving at the Castle, it had fallen to him to find a way of confiscating it from under the Headmaster's keen eye. Now he finally had the perfect way, he regretted not thinking of it sooner.

It did not help the boy's cause that it was the same article of clothing which had helped him to discover the half-truth in the first place. Because even if he'd had the presence of mind to place a soundproofing spell on his office door at the time of his and Lupin's talk, Potter would still have learned what he had. As long as the boy had his Invisibility Cloak, he would continue to believe himself entitled to sneak around unhindered.

But his dear father would be demanding its return now. Plainly, the Potter boy would be distressed at the thought of losing his prized possession. But as Lucius had said, the boy was impressionable, and his sentimentality for his idealised father would surely win out in any battle of the Potter egos.

It was with such pleasurable thoughts, looking forward to accosting Potter to put his plan into action, Snape dismissed the afternoon's third-year class. Perhaps, he reflected, gathering his notes after the last of the student rabble had left, he might even be able to find some use for the Cloak himself, as he had done a few years ago when he had surprised the little meeting with Black in the Shrieking Shack.

He cleared the board with a flourish of his wand, and turned.

Maybe he had been indulging too heavily in these imaginings, he thought, as his gaze fell on the very subject of his happy plans.

The boy was standing by the half-open door, holding the handle and peering around as though lost. Snape watched as he glanced back at the corridor and closed the door. He fiddled with his bag as he came clumsily forward through the tables. He was still rummaging inside it when he reached the desk.

'Potter. What are you doing?'

'Sir…' he said, putting Snape instantly on guard. At last Potter pulled something out. He brought it to the desk and raised an expectant gaze. Snape looked. It was a parcel.

'What is this?'

'It's… There's no note or anything.'

The cover appeared to have been torn from old wrapping. Snape saw the letters _thday_ underneath the layers of blotchy parchment and hastily knotted string. It was not addressed. He lifted his gaze to the boy's guilty look.

Potter reddened. 'There's nothing traceable, I swear.' He shifted furtively. 'Can you… Can you please give it to him? To my dad? Sir?'

Snape did not say it immediately. He allowed himself an enjoyable moment to watch the doubt spread across Potter's face as it anticipated the refusal already playing on his lips.

But then he wondered. Though he had told him there were to be no letters or parcels, wasn't this exactly the sort of thing that would make Potter more amenable? If he indulged him, it might make it easier to bring further requests from his father – certainly, turning him away now would make it more difficult to get him to hand the Cloak over later.

He foresaw the happy look on Potter's face, and stiffened. He reached for the parcel as he kept a close eye on Potter. It gave way beneath his finger. He prodded harder and watched the boy squirm satisfyingly. Still, it was not enough to compensate for what he was about to do.

He forced his jaw loose. 'If there is anything identifiable – anything – you will find yourself in a detention not even a memory charm will erase.'

Potter's entire body seemed suddenly to slacken. 'No –' he shook his head more vigorously than needed, delight writ large on the Potter features '– there's nothing, I promise.' The speed with which he took up his bag with an anxious eye showed plainly he knew how close it had been.

His mumbled thanks as he turned did nothing to lessen Snape's tension as he fought against the unnatural turn of events. He had to remind himself – as the door banged and the boy could clearly be heard running down the corridor – why he had done it. It would be worth it, once he had the Invisibility Cloak and he could relax knowing Potter could no longer pry unseen around the school grounds – or even off them, as he knew he had done two years ago, floating head and all. He would give it a few days before beginning to convey demands from his erstwhile father.

First he had this thing to get rid of.

He worked through the options. He could just throw it away. But then, he considered, peering at the messy wrapping, whatever it was may be of some value – materialistically speaking, of course.

Then again, he thought, jabbing it warily once more, it might be one of the Weasleys' gaudy knitted sweaters Potter was simply trying to palm off as a gift.

He removed his finger with distaste and wondered: What if there was indeed something identifiable within that would justify a pleasurable detention or two? He was sure he could find a scrap, if he tried.

He pulled the string with care as though it were concealing one of the Weasley twins' practical jokes.

Peeling back the shabby layers, he froze in recognition as the delicate silver material slid onto the table.

Damn the boy's insolence!

He slung the paper back around the Invisibility Cloak and gathered it up with his notes. So Potter thought he could gain the attention of his father this way? He strode into his office and tossed the offending item into his desk. The boy was an exhibitionist – just like his arrogant father. He slammed the drawer shut.


	7. Too Much

**_7. Too much_**

'No way!' cried Ron. 'I'm not letting them get away with that. They scared the hell out of … er … those first-years.' His expression shifted from angry to embarrassed before he recovered. 'And,' he added hastily, 'we can get them back, can't we, Harry, mate?' He grinned and put an arm around Harry's shoulder.

Harry shrugged him off.

'Aw, come on. It'll be fun. It'll be the opposite of what they did – they've got Headless Hats, we've got … er … a Torso-less Cloak,' he ended lamely.

'Oh, I get it.' Ron's excitement was doing nothing to halt Harry's growing irritation. 'You want to use the Cloak to scare Fred and George with a floating head? That's pretty childish, Ron.' He picked up his pace down the corridor. 'There's more important uses for an Invisibility Cloak than silly things like that.'

Ron was staring at him as if he had just Transfigured into a toad. 'What's up with you? OK, just lend it me then. I'm getting them back if it's the last thing I do.'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Look!' He met Ron's stare. 'I don't have it any more. OK?' He turned away angrily.

'What do you mean you don't have it any more?' asked Ron slowly. 'Where is it?'

Harry didn't reply straight away, but Ron clearly wasn't going to give up. 'I gave it to my dad … Prongs,' he belatedly corrected himself.

'You saw him?'

'No, I … I gave it to … to Snape.'

He was afraid he would have to repeat himself, he had said it so quietly. Consequently, he hadn't had the chance to brace himself when Ron shouted in his ear.

'You did WHAT?'

Harry turned his reddening face on the curious glances being thrown at them as everyone made their way to the next classes.

'Of all the crazy things… D'you really think that git's gonna give it to your dad? You're nuts.'

Blood was rushing to Harry's head. 'Yeah? _Nuts_ for wanting my dad safe? _Nuts_ for taking the chance – and anyway, what do I lose even if he doesn't give it to him? A stupid kids' toy, that's all it is here with me. At least I'll have tried.'

'Snape'll just use it for himself. That what you want?'

'It's all right for you,' said Harry, his patience slipping away. 'You know your dad's safe! I don't know anything … no one tells me _anything_!'

'And that's another thing,' said Ron, apparently undeterred by Harry's rising voice. 'How come you've heard nothing from him yet? No letter or anything. You'd think—'

'Yeah,' Harry cut in. 'I suppose you're gonna say Snape won't let anything through. Been chucking his letters on the fire? Well, maybe it's because he doesn't _want_ to contact me. How about _that_?'

He immediately regretted the remark. He had not told Ron or Hermione anything of what Snape had said about James losing all memory of his past and his family. He had not dared to listen to the niggling thought that had been forming since then. He could not blame his dad if he did not want to remember his past, what he had lost, what he had believed was lost – perhaps it made it easier for him to do what he had to do now, to pretend to Voldemort, after what he had done to his family, that he was on his side – it did not make it any easier for Harry.

'Don't be thick,' said Ron.

Thankful that Ron had not taken him seriously, he released a deep breath that took with it some of his frustration. 'Forget it,' he said. 'Come on, we've got classes to get to, and Hermione'll nag us if we're late.'

He was relieved to see Ron's worried expression change subtly at the thought of the impending scolding.

And he was glad Ron didn't bring the subject up again all day, and seemed to have forgotten the whole episode. He didn't feel in any mood to argue while trying to practise Occlumency during classes and breaks. And he was even happier when Ron said nothing to Hermione about it. Another argument with her would be even worse than one with Ron.

But he did regret handing the Invisibility Cloak to Snape. Once he had thought of giving it to his dad, he had wanted him to have it straight away. Why couldn't he have waited a few more days? Monday had seemed to come around again faster than he had imagined it would. He'd had all weekend to take in just what a stupid idea it had been to give it to Snape to pass on.

In the evening, Snape gave no indication he had done so yet. Harry did not dare to ask. It was difficult to deflect Snape's Legilimency spells with it on his mind. His head was pounding again. As Snape withdrew, he clutched his scar. His hand was damp with sweat.

'Poor effort today, Potter. I hope you're not using a little headache as an excuse?'

'No, I'm not. It hurts more when I practise.'

Snape had gone quiet. Harry looked up – or rather squinted as much as his throbbing head would allow – to see Snape had narrowed his eyes. 'Explain.'

'It's just the scar.'

Snape paused. 'When?'

'When I practise.'

'So –' Snape drew a finger over his thin mouth as he studied him, '– so before sleep?'

'And in classes.'

Snape stopped. 'What classes?'

'All of them.' Harry shuffled to a chair. His head eased a little as he sat. At least his eye sockets weren't on fire any more – he was thankful for once Snape's office was as gloomy as it was.

He felt Snape's gaze flitting over him. 'When else do you practise?'

Harry shrugged. 'At meals. In between classes.'

Snape was staring openly. 'When do you not practise?'

Harry stayed silent. It was clear from the way Snape was glaring at him as though he were doing something wrong that he was gearing up for a petty argument.

'You expect me to believe you are doing all this, when last term you did nothing?'

Harry didn't care what Snape did or did not believe. 'It's important. That's what you said before Christmas.'

'It has been important from the start. Nothing has changed.'

'You said Voldemort could read my mind – he could find out about my dad through me.'

'Do not say the Dark Lord's name! The pain in your head should be warning enough!'

Harry glared back as he waited for Snape to calm down.

'Your head must not hurt all the time, because you would stop.'

'No –' Already Harry was feeling the first twinges of reflexive anger Snape usually inspired in him. 'No, I don't – because it's important.'

Snape looked dubious. 'So let's see if I have this right. You practise all day, morning, afternoon and every night before sleep. And your head hurts each time. And you carry on?'

'Yeah.' Harry held his cynical gaze. He resented the continuing insistence he was lying, particularly about this, and especially coming from Snape. 'Yeah, I do.'

'Even supposing this is true –' He ignored Harry's glare '– did it not occur to you how foolish it is to test your link to the Dark Lord?'

'Isn't that the whole point of it? To stop him using the link?'

'You're overdoing it, Potter. Far too much.'

'How can I overdo it? It was you who told me to practise. Now you're saying it's too much?' Snape was obviously trying to make a big deal of it as an excuse to give him a hard time. 'Can't you make up your mind?'

'Is it that which hurts the most?' Snape's eyes were boring into his scar as if it was about to spring to life.

'How can I be overdoing it?' Harry repeated, as much as anything in an effort to ignore the creepy way Snape was staring at his head.

But silence had descended. Harry wondered if Snape had heard him. He had emptied his gaze, and for a few long moments it remained that way. Eventually he said as though coming to a decision, 'It seems the link you share with the Dark Lord is having adverse effects when you attempt to close your mind so frequently. Besides the adverse effects on your concentration in classes,' he added with a glare. He frowned. 'Your age may also be a factor – your mind is young and vulnerable. You simply do not need to practise so deeply and so often.' His mouth twisted into a sneer. 'Why is it from one extreme to another with you, Potter?'

'Because I don't want Voldemort to know what I'm thinking!'

'I told you not to speak his name!' he spat through yellow teeth. 'Now – as for the possibility of the Dark Lord knowing your thoughts – I don't believe it exists.'

Harry sat up. 'Why? You said before that—'

'I'm aware of what I said.' Snape regarded him calmly. 'However, some information has since come to light that gives me reason to believe he cannot know your thoughts.'

'What reason? How do you know he can't?'

'It is enough that I know.'

It was clear Snape would not explain, no matter how many times Harry asked. He felt himself tense up again. Why didn't anyone tell him anything?

'Besides,' Snape went on, 'what is there in your brain the Dark Lord could find so useful? Please – enlighten me on what could be so devastating if he discovered it in the … depths … of your mind.'

'Weren't you listening?' Harry was gripping the seat of his chair. No one seemed to listen to him any more. Dumbledore was away at the Ministry all the time trying to convince them of Voldemort's return. Lupin always had somewhere else to be when he saw him at the Castle. And they had refused to let him into the Order. 'I told you – I don't want Voldemort to find out about my dad. I don't want him to find out he's risking his life to spy for us.'

He thought Snape would pull him up on the name again. But then his black eyes narrowed and his lip began to curl. 'I see,' he said at last. 'First that … parcel. And now this. I've already made it plain. There will be no meetings, no letters – so I suggest you give up this childish attention-seeking.'

'Don't you get it?' Harry shouted, his anger getting the better of him. 'I'm not doing this to get his attention!'

'Do not raise your voice to me, unless you want Gryffindor in negative figures this year.'

'I don't care about stupid bloody points.'

'Ten points from Gryffindor for foul language.'

Harry stared at a corner of the table. If it were not for all the practice he was doing outside their lessons, he knew he would have found it almost impossible to put aside his hate enough to repel as much of Snape's Legilimency as he was managing to do. He turned his indignation back to him. 'Haven't you ever wanted to do whatever you could to make sure someone you cared about was safe?'

Snape's face was like stone. When he spoke his voice was almost a whisper. 'You are to stop this. Only fools wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves. You are handing yourself over to be crushed like a fly.'

'But I know it's working!'

'SILENCE! You will listen to me!' He seemed suddenly consumed with fury, his face contorted like a crazed animal. But Harry's anger permitted only fleeting shock. 'You are not to continue with these attempts beyond what you were told.'

Harry made himself take several breaths before speaking. 'Fine,' he said between gritted teeth. He met Snape's rage; he had no intention of discontinuing anything.

'By next week,' said Snape when he had composed himself, 'I want you in a better position to resist me properly. As you are now, you are utterly useless.'

Harry stood to leave; together with the pain in his head, the frustration and anger he had been building toward Snape seemed to propel him from the chair.

'Do only what I told you to do,' he heard Snape say as he left. 'Clear your mind every night before sleep and no more, you understand?'

Harry understood all right. He understood they all thought he was still just a kid trying to get attention. Nobody ever took him seriously in his efforts to be a responsible adult. He had never been able to drive back Snape's attempts to get further into his head as much as he was lately, and it was rare he found himself reacting reflexively with Stinging Hexes and the like as he had done at the start.

He would not stop now, when he was achieving so much. They would see he was no longer the kid they believed him to be.

-x-

He rarely had breakfast, and he had not seen Potter at lunch. But at dinner Snape scanned the Gryffindor table, and spotted the full dream team halfway down its length.

There was Ronald Weasley chatting with the know-it-all Miss Granger; and next to Weasley sat Potter, contemplating his food. If the boy was not meditating on his steak, he had better be ruminating on what new levels of greatness he had reached today. Because otherwise, he was plainly trying to do exactly what he had been warned not to.

Miss Granger had turned to draw him in to the chat. She looked annoyed to find he was not listening to her; a well-placed elbow signalled her irritation. Potter flinched. And it was cartoon-like in its exaggeration. Miss Granger's face burned red while Potter fumbled across plates to retrieve the fork that had leapt clean out of his hand. He was saved by a wave of mirth as Lavender Brown pulled globs of his mash from her hair.

Snape looked to his side as he made a move with his own fork. Everyone at the staff table was engrossed in talk or their meals. If things carried on as they were, though, it would only be a matter of time.

Just the other day Dumbledore had asked him in passing to try not to overwork the boy. He had dismissed the remark. Potter was no packhorse. But after the boy's little admission yesterday, he was beginning to understand. Clearly one or other teacher had been speaking to the Headmaster.

'I hope you aren't giving Potter too much work to do, Severus,' said Minerva next to him. Flitwick had quit her side, leaving her deprived of conversation. 'The poor boy has enough on his plate.'

'Yes, I imagine being a celebrity is a full-time occupation.'

'I am Head of his House, Severus – and I've received expressions of concern. Potter has been noticeably distant in classes, even visibly in pain.' She turned her gaze down the hall with a frown. 'Even now he doesn't appear altogether present. Does this have anything to do with the private lessons you're giving him?'

'Potter has to learn.'

'Not at the expense of his schoolwork. It doesn't matter how good an Occlumens you are if you can't even Transfigure your way out of a jam.'

'I've told him not to overdo it. He is insistent.'

'Well, he must be commended at least for putting so much effort in. I wish he showed the same enthusiasm for the rest of his education. But you must try harder to convince him. I'm sure Dumbledore would agree.'

Snape caught the hint. Mercifully Dumbledore was away at the Ministry again. 'Regrettably,' he said, forcing his voice to reassurance, 'I did not learn he was going to such lengths until just recently. He must have misunderstood my original instructions. I have set him straight, but of course it will take him a little time to shake off the habit. Meanwhile, I shall continue to keep an eye on him.' That was exactly what he now had to start doing, he realised as he stared down the Gryffindor table.

'So shall I,' said Minerva, and she took her leave.

He watched Potter continue to take in slow forkfuls of food. If news of the levels of his idiocy reached Dumbledore, the Headmaster might take matters into his own hands – he might take Potter's attention-seeking seriously and try to persuade himself the boy should know the full truth about his father. Snape worked his food as he looked on. The one thing he had learned from his recent audience with the Dark Lord was that he believed completely that Potter knew everything. If the Dark Lord could really intrude into the boy's mind at will, he would have discovered otherwise long ago. Plainly, then, though some Occlumency was warranted as a precaution against their curious link, these excesses were entirely not.

He could not deny that he himself had years ago found a deeper satisfaction in Occlumency as he had practised more strictly and increased his skill in the art. He had triumphed over the emotions that had tried to take hold of him.

But Potter was younger than he had been then, and there had been no magical link to the Dark Lord to cause complications.

Of course, the boy believed he knew best, just like his father. He would end this stupidity soon enough on realising his pathetic exhibitionism was getting him nowhere, when he understood his dear fatuous father would not be rushing to his side to congratulate him for such asinine behaviour. But another trait of his father was stubbornness in his self-assuredness, right to the end. Snape could not wait until then. He needed to keep this from Dumbledore. He needed to make the boy see sense.

The others around Potter were leaving the table. Potter reluctantly got up; he had barely made an impression on his plate, from what Snape could see. Was the boy so arrogant as to believe he could make great strides in Occlumency on an empty stomach? He concentrated his stare on Potter's unreadable expression as the boy trailed after his chattering friends. He would not dare to do something so reckless in his class – would he?

The next morning he got his answer.

When he knew Potter thought he was not looking, he glanced up from the mess in Longbottom's cauldron, and caught him plainly at it. His brainless friends had not noticed a thing. Or perhaps they were used to the thin sheen of sweat on Potter's forehead and the vacant gaze.

'Sir?'

He turned his wrath toward the source of the small voice and saw Longbottom's eyes widening with terror under his glare. He sent it to the boy's supposed Befuddlement Draught. 'Get rid of it, Longbottom. I wouldn't give that shambles to a toad.' The boy made a sound like a whimper and dropped his wand in his haste to clear the potion before his absurd pet could be made to suffer the effects of his handiwork.

Snape returned his attention to Potter – who quickly averted his gaze – and as he did a spasm seemed to run through him. His eyes screwed shut and his hand flew halfway to his head, before he stopped it and forced it down.

Snape strode across. 'No marks again, then, Potter,' he said as the fumes from the wretched potion reached his nostrils. '_Evanesco_.' He breathed in the freshening air over the emptied cauldron. 'Feeling ill, Potter?' He held the boy's sheepish gaze for a moment, making sure he registered his disapproval. 'Hardly surprising, with that abominable stench you managed to create.' Some sniggering broke out behind him, and Potter reddened. Snape turned to the class. 'Settle down, everyone. The properties of Befuddlement Draughts and Confusing Concoctions,' he said as he made his way to the front, 'often come up at Ordinary Wizarding Level. I want an essay from each of you detailing the composition, the effects and what you did right today –' he looked around at Longbottom '– and wrong.' Longbottom dropped his eyes. 'And why. To be handed in the next lesson.' He ignored the collective groan. 'Bottle and label your potions and bring them forward. Clear your places before you leave.'

He took his seat and looked beyond the flurry of students and through the first hasty deposits on his desk. Over the growing line of glass vials misty from still-hot potions, he saw Potter leaning on his schoolbag, appearing for all the world as though he was about to take a nap in his class.

Potter had already earned a detention – he would take great care to shake the boy's arrogance from him fully this time.

He considered the finer points beneath the prattle and the clink of glass as he looked on through the steady movement around him, until he became conscious of a stationary figure at its edge. Draco had placed his potion alongside the others, and was now gazing at him with a curious expression. 'Is there a problem, Mr Malfoy?'

Draco blinked, appearing to have only just realised he had met his eyes. 'No, sir.' He smiled. 'No problem at all.'

He returned to his desk, and Snape watched him clear it. His smile had reminded him of one of Lucius's disquieting smirks. The boy seemed to be becoming more and more like his father every day.

Which reminded him.

'Potter! Stay behind.'

-x-

It was the same gloomy, mouldy room of Harry's recent dreams. He turned to his right as usual and saw the door ajar.

Pushing carefully so it did not creak on its rusty hinges, he took two tentative steps through the doorway and into the empty corridor. The décor was just the same here – peeling greenish-grey wallpaper above musty wainscoting. And just as in the room behind him, a weak light was straining to reach the dirt gathered at the wall and lining the floorboards.

There were muffled voices coming from somewhere down the corridor. Harry was moving toward them, and before long found himself standing in front of a closed door where the voices were strongest. He leaned in to hear them better.

'…only antidote's Antisanisee,' a man said.

Harry heard a heartless laugh in reply. 'Shame he won't be able to run along and find any in time…'

'_Antisanis…_'

'_Oi!_'

Harry lifted his head and squinted into Ron's worried face.

'Mate, you fell asleep.'

'What?' Harry rubbed the side of his face. It felt as though something painful had been pressing into it, something shaped very like the buckles on his schoolbag. He rearranged his glasses and touched his tingling scar; his headache was hanging around. Sitting about in here was not helping – the room was still heavy with heat from brewing potions. He got up, making an effort to shake off some of the drowsiness.

It seemed Hermione had already left for Arithmancy. But he couldn't have drifted off for more than a few minutes – if anything there was more of a bustle and clatter as the last of the ingredients and equipment were being tossed hurriedly into cupboards. He peered around the darting figures to the front of the class. 'You don't think Snape noticed?'

'You were saying some weird stuff,' said Ron, picking up a book from the floor.

'Was I?'

'Something about your Aunty's sore knee.'

'I remember –' He concentrated on what the people in his dream had said '– Antisanisee.' Hadn't they called it some kind of antidote?

'Yeah, that sounds like it. What's it mean?'

'How should I know? It was just a dream. Doesn't mean anything.' It had been the same room again. Why did he keep having these dreams about a strange room? 'You ready?' he asked as Ron stuffed another book in his bag. He could not wait to get out of the dungeons for some air.

'You sure you're up to it? Why don't you just skive off Divination? You could do Snape's essay instead.'

Their usual seats at the back were only a few steps from the door, and Harry was already beside it when he heard Snape.

'Potter! Stay behind.'

Ron gave him a sympathetic shrug. Harry had little choice but to stand by as Ron left with the last few Gryffindors.

-x-

'Sit.' Snape moved to the classroom door and carefully closed it.

'I've got Divination…'

'I wouldn't care if you had an appointment with the Dark Lord himself, Potter.'

Harry dropped his schoolbag onto the nearest desk and sat.

'So. It appears you are, predictably, ignoring my instructions.' Snape remained standing and looked at him down his hooked nose. 'Perhaps I was not clear enough on how much Occlumency practice you are to do? Was I, Potter?'

'You were clear. But you don't understand—'

'Oh, I do. I believe you are enjoying it. You are once again the centre of all attention – the place which gives you greatest pleasure.'

Harry stared at a pile of clean cauldrons stacked against the wall. He would not take Snape's bait.

But Snape was not giving up so easily. 'But perhaps you think you know better than me? You are an expert in Occlumency, you understand how to control—'

'I know what I'm doing is right.' He glared at Snape's lack of concern. But how could Harry expect him to understand? Snape didn't give a damn about his dad's safety – but at least Snape knew whether or not he was safe. 'You don't know what it's like.'

'No, I didn't have the privilege of growing up a celebrity. How vexing it must be to discover somebody has not been showering you with the attention you plainly deserve.'

'He's not just someone. He's my dad.'

'Which makes it all the more important that you get his notice. He is, after all, the standard by which you set yours.'

Harry twisted the strap of his bag in his hand. He felt faint from the closeness of the dungeon air and the blood rushing anew into his aching head. He could barely think after the particularly challenging few days he'd had trying to concentrate on Occluding his mind. It seemed the more he tried, the more light-headed and nauseous he was from the headaches, and the more difficult it became to focus. And when he did open his mind again, it was taking longer to pull his thoughts together – after practising all yesterday lunchtime, he'd had to stay behind in the dormitory for several minutes so anyone trying to start a conversation in the common room wouldn't think he'd been replaced by an inarticulate robot.

'You will not succeed,' said Snape. 'Believe me. You will not gain his undying gratitude. There will be no words of pride or praise.'

'You don't get it.'

'But I do, Potter. You are no longer satisfied with the blinkered admiration of your peers, of the imbecilic reporters at the _Daily Prophet_. Your father would have relished it all, but you are growing bored already it seems. What is it, Potter? Not getting enough column-inches lately? Your popularity waning?'

'I'm not doing this to get his attention. I'm not doing it to get anyone's attention!'

'That is just as well, because trust me – you are his last concern. Now sit back down.'

Harry was only aware he had got out of his chair by the start Snape's words gave him. 'Because he doesn't know me?'

'Oh, he knows you, Potter. He knows you only too well.'

Harry studied the sneer. 'What have you been telling him?'

'What's to tell? Everyone knows you take after him exactly. But perhaps,' he said quietly when Harry made no move to reply, 'perhaps he _should_ be informed about this – he would be genuinely proud of this stupidity. Especially when it lands you in the hospital wing or worse.' Snape's black eyes were keen, calculating. 'Is that what you would like? Do you want him to pay a visit to your sickbed in St Mungo's?'

Harry's head was light. He felt he might drown in the sheer determination of Snape's disinterest in James's welfare. The torchlit walls around him were falling back – he didn't feel safe standing – but he would not sit down. 'I want to make sure my dad's safe.'

'Don't we all.'

The distance in Snape's cold gaze suddenly felt real; he was no longer within arm's reach. Harry knew he would not be able to change Snape's view – he was dreaming – he had fallen asleep in class again, and someone was talking. 'What's that supposed to mean?' It was his voice, but they weren't his words. His words were someone else's, and Snape was voicing his reply when he finally heard them. 'You don't need to pretend he'd even do that.'

There was a frown on Snape's pale forehead. 'Do what?'

'Visit me in St Mungo's.'

'Really?' Snape's emotionless voice fell away uselessly.

'Because I know he's got his own life – a new life.'

A strange, almost satisfied expression was forming on Snape's face. 'True, Potter. Very true.'

It was like a wave of relief.

His friends still did not know about James's memory loss. They would simply confirm what Harry had been suspecting. But here was someone who did share that knowledge, and he was confirming it. Harry had been dreading it; but now that his suspicions were fact, all he could feel was the numbness of release.

'I thought he was dead anyway. I'm just glad he isn't like Lockhart.' He saw Lockhart's vacant expression as he had been carted off to St Mungo's.

Snape was speaking again – something about him ending up in the bed next to Lockhart if he didn't listen to him.

'You don't need to pretend he ever talks about me that way – like I'm his son. Because I know I'm not any more. Not the way he sees it.' There was a feeling of loss, but determination, and a sad sort of happiness – not for him, but for his dad. The emotions were coming from somewhere, but he didn't know where to put them. 'Why wouldn't he want to get away from his past? He can't remember it, and why would he want to, with everything that's happened? I don't blame him. In fact I envy him.' Was that a new one? Where did that one belong? 'I'd give anything to do what he's doing – to have the opportunity to make a difference without everyone knowing my name everywhere I go. No more staring or pointing just because of who I am. If I could make a fresh start away from all that, I'd jump at the chance. I'd take it – and why shouldn't he? He doesn't remember who he was, so why shouldn't he?' That one seemed to have been dealt with. He turned to the next one in line. 'But I do have the responsibility – it was my fault I found out he's alive and a spy – it's all my fault. And Voldemort is not going to find out that he – or anyone else – is a spy from me.'

He had reached the end of the line. There was something deeply calming about the silence that followed. Everything was in its place – not because he had forced the thoughts and feelings to go where he chose, as he was used to doing lately – but because he had allowed them to find their own paths.

So they had left him here.

He was still in the dungeons, in the Potions classroom.

And Snape was still looking at him. Harry felt the first shudder of panic, as though he had just landed here by Portkey. He remembered how badly he needed fresh air; the room was still laden with potion fumes. Snape was standing only a few feet away; if he put out a hand he could have touched him. He would be completely helpless if Snape chose to test his Occlumency now.

What was the point of all that practice if he couldn't control himself at other times? And to Snape, of all people.

Oh, God – Snape!

Now Harry did hear the thud of his heart and taste the tang of adrenalin. It was, as usual, hard to tell what Snape was thinking. Harry needed air more than ever. He would have to skip Divination after all, just to clear his head – and he needed to clear it before he could make a start on tonight's Occlumency practice. A brisk walk to the lake might do the trick; it had worked the other day when he'd needed to get away for a bit.

'So – I'm late for Divination.'

Yes, the lake, he thought as he left the room without looking back. Don't think about what Snape might be planning to do with all the ammunition he had just given him. He looked forward to reaching the lake and getting back to focusing on his Occlumency.


	8. Choices

**_8. Choices_**

'Is it prison visiting hours again so soon?'

'What?' Remus closed the door behind him. 'Well, perhaps if you ventured out of these dungeons more often…' He made a show of peering around, eyebrows raised, at the windowless room.

From the shadows by the wall Snape looked up from the cauldron he was stooped over. His sharp glance said they both knew what Snape had meant. But Remus wasn't about to humour him. Snape straightened and began chopping something using the knife Remus hadn't seen him holding.

Amid the decisive tap-tap-tap, Remus took the usual seat. He had learned by now it was pointless waiting to be asked. 'I don't know how you can do that in this light.'

Snape made a soft noise. 'Extraordinary how one gets used to dwelling in the dark.'

'But one can grow so accustomed to it, one becomes afraid of the light.'

'Are you here simply to talk in thinly disguised metaphors?'

'Well, it makes a change from Sirius's more blunt remarks.' Remus's smile was lost in the dimness as Snape gathered up what he had been cutting. He deposited the root-like objects into a jar, carried it to a shelf, and returned to study the cauldron.

Now Remus's eyes had adjusted to the more than usual gloominess of the room, he saw the delicate white haze. It swirled from the brewing potion and glimmered as it rose in the soft light, before edging into the shadows.

'You might as well know. The Dark Lord has told me.' Snape had moved to the side. The light caught a jar of knotweed he was holding up to examine.

'He told you what he did to James and you?'

'Not the details, of course. And not why he has decided to tell me now. He is satisfied I think nothing of it – because I had not thought it worth mentioning I already knew from Flintoff's capture.'

'Well – I suppose that's something of a relief for you.'

There was a clunk as Snape put down the jar. 'He believes Potter knows.'

'Harry? But is that a problem?'

'Not for me, certainly. The Dark Lord wants Potter to know the truth. Why? Is it for more than to simply hurt him emotionally?'

'To hurt him?'

'But the Dark Lord doesn't know him. Potter would revel in the truth.'

'Sounds like you don't know Harry, either.'

'I've known the boy longer than you.'

'But how well do you really know him?'

Snape had picked up a stirring rod; he lowered it slowly into the cauldron and seemed to use the moment.

'You see him as James.'

Snape's head moved swiftly in reply. Under the dark stare, Remus felt suddenly small, like a child in the Potions Master's class who had scored badly for the twentieth time in a row.

Snape had a way of highlighting stupidity without needing to say anything. Remus had first tasted it while a student at Hogwarts – when, for some reason he had long forgotten, he had been left behind after one of James and Sirius's bouts with Snape.

As then, Remus glanced away from the accusation.

This time, he turned right back again. 'There's nothing he can do to hurt Harry. Except keep the truth from him.'

Snape sensed the victory despite his words. 'Really? Do you suggest, while I'm at it, I should fill him in on some important details about his dear father's past you and Black no doubt failed to mention?'

'You know stories are just that.'

'Precisely. It is always the truth that hurts.'

Remus looked with curiosity at his bitterness. It seemed to run deeper than he had thought, into some gully he did not recognise. 'Not always.'

For a long moment Snape held his gaze; it was lengthy enough for Remus to begin to wonder, his heart quickening, if he might be seeking to shape some of that depth into words. But then it was broken before Remus could discern anything. Snape's attention was back on the cauldron. And beyond the curtain of lanky hair, Remus saw him reassert his usual reticence.

He understood why Dumbledore had chosen to tell him – Remus was someone for Snape to confide in, someone who had known James but did not hold great prejudices against Snape. He supposed he was 'neutral' in that respect, and he imagined he should take that as a compliment. But it was also a painful reminder of his deliberate neutrality at school when he had turned aside from his friends' more unpleasant games.

He found he was often disturbed from the simple joy of knowing his old friend had not gone completely, by wishing Dumbledore had told someone else instead. Minerva McGonagall perhaps. She would have known what to say, and wouldn't have minced her words about it either. If only Dumbledore could spend more time at Hogwarts instead of at the Ministry trying to convince them Voldemort had returned. But Remus suspected his selection as Snape's confidant was also due in no small part to his lycanthropy, which even today he had to keep reminding himself wasn't the true him.

He sat up in the hard chair. 'When my friends finally found out I was a werewolf – I can't tell you what a relief it was.' He struggled to see if this was having any impact. 'It's been months, Severus. The longer you leave it, the harder it will be – I know. I became more and more afraid of being discovered as time went on. But their reactions couldn't have been more different to what I'd feared. Look at _me_ – is it so bad that I know?'

There was no reply. He saw a powdery substance fall from Snape's hand into the cauldron.

He hated lying to Harry. Snape would have to tell him the truth one day, and it would be far better sooner rather than later. But he was at a loss as to how to persuade him. Snape was a master at hiding himself from others – this, to him, was no different. But he was hiding so much more than just himself this time, and Remus felt a twinge of anger. 'James would not want this.'

Snape's eyes were on him. 'Is that so?' His mouth twisted into an ugly shape. 'Why don't you ask him?'

Remus held his gaze despite feeling the blood in his head betraying him. He shouldn't have given in to his anger. But that did not make Snape right. 'You're forgetting it wasn't just you who had no choice in what happened.'

'Him!' said Snape wildly. 'It is always him!' Although his fury subsided, Remus noticed his jaw remained clenched. 'And choices. What about those?' He looked back at the simmering potion. 'You know about choices, werewolf? Does choosing to turn from those who could have been saved damage the soul?'

The silence fell like a weighted curtain. The implication was obvious, and Remus felt the blood desert him just as swiftly at being thrust into unfamiliar territory. Death Eater territory.

'Dumbledore is so fond of choices.' Snape's voice was distant; he was speaking to himself from beyond the gulf he had opened. 'But what choices do I have now? My soul – mine – what chance is there for me to heal it now?'

Remus fixed his eyes on the hard desk and unwillingly found himself wondering how far Snape had gone over the years.

'And has it affected my judgement?'

'How do you mean?'

Snape pulled a sour face. 'I've had an undamaged soul all along.'

'We all make our own choices.' Remus said it almost automatically. But he wondered about his own sincerity. Because where really did James end and Snape begin?

Snape was sneering at the obvious regurgitation of one of Dumbledore's pronouncements.

'But really,' said Remus, pushing on, 'how do you know your soul is not being healed? I've always thought the normal rules don't apply … wherever it is. None of us know how all this is supposed to work.' He certainly didn't. Was Snape James with Snape's body and Snape's memories? That was how Remus thought of it. How simplistic, and complicated, it seemed. Snape did not appear to have heard. Remus breathed deeply. 'Do you know anyone who does?'

Another uneasy moment passed, and then Snape dipped his head and moved the stirring rod. Remus felt its renewed motion steering them back into easier waters.

'What was his Patronus?'

The shadows of the last subject had not yet retreated, and Remus did not feel comfortable speaking about James. But how stupid that was. James was right here. 'I don't remember there being one. Not a fully formed one…'

This seemed to bring Snape back. His mocking glance evaporated any trace of lingering tension. 'Really?'

Remus felt a sudden duty to defend him. 'James was only – what – twenty-one when he…' He considered how best to phrase it. Not died, as such. Passed on?

But Snape was still thinking. 'So he wasn't able to produce a full Patronus,' he said as though Remus had confirmed it. 'It doesn't surprise me at all.'

'I didn't say that.' He thought about mentioning Snape's Patronus – or lack of. Snape always used other methods of communicating with them in the Order, ostensibly to preserve his spy status. 'I simply said I couldn't remember witnessing it. Why do you want to know anyway?' Silence again. 'You know, you really should let go of your hate.'

'Should I?'

'Yes, you should. It took me years to stop hating that part of me that transforms every month. Hating it for what it was, the dangers it brought, the way it affected my life. But there comes a point when you have to accept it as a part of yourself. How else can you move on?'

Snape turned a disparaging eye on him. 'Hardly the same thing.'

'No, it isn't. _You_ don't lose self-control every month. That is,' Remus added, lowering his defences a little, 'I did until the Wolfsbane Potion.'

'Self-control? I dare say that isn't what _he_ thinks.'

'Dumbledore?'

'Not about me.'

'I'm sure that isn't true. You know as well as I do Dumbledore believes it's our choices that make us who we are.'

'Whoever _I_ am.'

They had returned to this difficult subject. What did Remus really expect, coming here? Did he think James would become clearer in time, that the more often he presented himself the more likely his old friend could be teased out, as though they were ten and he was calling at his house to ask if he could come out to play? But Snape was a determined keeper.

'I must attend to this potion. I haven't made it in a very long time.'

It was the usual curt dismissal. Remus had got used to it by now; he'd had to. 'Promise me you'll talk to Dumbledore if it's bothering you?' he said as he got up.

'Why should I be concerned with what he thinks?'

Remus sighed; it was pointless to force the issue. At the door, he remembered something he had been wondering about. He looked back into the shadows. 'Does Wormtail know?'

He thought he saw Snape grimace. 'Thankfully not. I dread to think what the rat would do if he did. Beg for forgiveness on bended knee or something equally nauseating. At least it would provide the opportunity to give the traitor what he deserves.'

Remus was glad Peter did not know. But he felt a certain sadness too. Peter had made his own choices, and was paying the price for them.

But he knew Snape was making his own as well. He knew it, despite the wait for James's presence to wake from his passive state. It may be James's magic he was using, but it was clear Snape was wielding all the power. Where were a person's decisions made but in the past, on the lonely island of memories? The ocean from James's seemed too far to cross.

Remus wished he could reassure him the way Minerva or Dumbledore would surely do. It would not hurt them to find the truth that was beyond Remus's capability. He only hoped Snape would one day understand it for himself.

And perhaps make the choice to be open with Harry as well.

-x-

A small group of Ravenclaws had stopped in the corridor to watch the show. But their fun did not last long. Several Slytherins were shoving them aside, eager not to miss out.

'Potty, Potty, Crackpot Potty,' screeched Peeves as he whirled in front of Harry.

'Go pick on someone more transparent,' yelled Ron.

'Ooooh, who's more transparent than Potty Potter?' howled Peeves.

'What's that supposed to mean?' demanded Ron, giving him a hefty swot as he somersaulted over their heads.

Harry had had enough. He drew his wand. '_Waddawasi!_'

A piece of gum a third-year Slytherin had been happily chewing as he looked on flew out of his mouth and shot up Peeves' right nostril.

'Great shot!' cried Ron as Peeves yelped.

'Well, I was aiming for the other side, but never mind.'

Peeves shot away.

'Making a spectacle again, Potter?'

They turned around to see Snape's black figure sweeping toward them. Glancing back, Harry was disturbed to see a few of the younger Slytherins staying behind waiting to see if this turn in events would result in something more to their liking.

Ron noticed Harry's nervous look. 'We haven't done anything wrong,' he said to Snape, who had now caught up to them. 'It was just Peeves.'

'Was I speaking to you, Weasley?'

It was their first encounter since their last Potions class, since Harry's reckless outburst. Harry's stomach was churning itself to ribbons. He was at Snape's mercy. Harry hardly seemed to care about the half a dozen Slytherins watching expectantly. It was somehow worse that Ron was here, and that he would learn his true feelings when Snape chose to throw them back at him.

Snape's black eyes slid to Harry. 'My office, Potter.' And he marched through them, forcing the dawdling Slytherins to stand aside to let him past. Harry was as relieved as they were disappointed.

'I'll see you in the common room,' he said to Ron, who wore a worried frown. But Harry was glad the belittling would take place in the privacy of Snape's office. Or maybe this was about his father, he wondered as he followed Snape. Perhaps he had written to him after all? Or – his stomach lurched again – maybe something had happened to him?

The dungeons weren't far, and before he knew it Snape had closed the door after him with a click. He stood in Snape's office and waited for the bad news.

Or, he thought hopefully, Snape was just bored and wanted to rub his face in the fact his father had cut all ties with his past, and then try to make him stop 'overdoing' his Occlumency practice again.

And, of course, to ridicule him about how he would just love to get away from everyone, change his name, his identity – to run away from his responsibilities of being the Boy Who Lived.

'Sadly,' said Snape, 'no cure has yet been discovered for arrogance.' He paused to enjoy the opening insult, and Harry got the feeling he had been practising, along with the sneer. Though it did not seem to last as long as usual. 'But since you plainly have no intention of heeding my warnings on excessive Occlumency practice, then you will take this.'

It was then Harry noticed he was holding a vial. He eyed the turquoise liquid that half-filled it. 'What is it?'

'It will relieve the pain.'

'You mean for the headaches? I managed to get some off Madam Pomfrey the other day.'

'Madam Pomfrey's are merely for general aches and pains. They will be next to useless in this case. Occlumency is a delicate art – it involves subtleties that cannot be appreciated by those who do not practise it. And those who mispractise it.'

'It's a potion specially for Occlumency headaches?' said Harry immediately with scepticism. But what he felt was glad. It meant the headaches were not completely abnormal after all.

'Yes, Potter –' Snape curled a lip '– it seems they can arise due to some weakness in the head.'

Harry took an odd sort of comfort from the smirk – things were already back to normal after his outburst a few days ago. But what was exciting was what this potion seemed to mean. 'Really?' He gazed in awe at the liquid in Snape's hand. 'It'll really stop my headaches – so I can carry on doing Occlumency practice?'

Snape's fingers closed around it jealously. 'It's temporary.'

'Until when?'

Snape thinned his mouth. 'It should last you several weeks.'

'Then what?'

Snape's jaw tightened. He said softly, 'Be grateful I'm giving you this, Potter.'

Harry stayed silent and stared instead at Snape's fist where the potion firmly remained.

'This does not come without a condition,' Snape said at last.

Harry looked up.

'I am not to hear from any professor that you've been practising in their class.'

Not even History of Magic? He had finally found some useful way of relieving the sheer boredom of Binns' class. 'All right.' Harry reached to take the potion. But Snape kept it back. His glare was infuriating. 'All right, fine. I won't practise Occlumency in anybody's class.' Except maybe Binns', he thought. If he didn't have a body, it didn't really count, did it? Besides, Binns wouldn't even know it if he woke up in a new one.

It was all Harry could do to stop himself grabbing the bottle Snape was now slowly arcing forward. The threat of swift removal was made real by the keenness of Snape's eye, as the bottle inched closer. He was giving Harry every chance to make a move. But he held out, and with great effort Harry simply unfurled his palm when it was too near for Snape to do anything but plant it there with a sour expression.

The instant Harry felt its solidness in his hand, he wanted to run with it to his trunk by his bed so it could not be taken back. The cool glass and the lightness of its weight were deceiving: This little bottle was a life-saver – maybe literally. He would not have to worry about Occlumency again, or his dad.

'You are to take three drops two to three times a day with water – no more,' intoned Snape. 'You will not let it into the hands of anyone else, because it is specific to your needs and may be dangerous for others. And you are to tell nobody of its existence. Are you listening to me, Potter?'

'Wha—?' He looked up on hearing his name barked. 'Yeah.'

Snape's eyes narrowed. 'How much should you take?'

'Three drops two or three times a day. And no more,' he added at Snape's glare.

'Tell no one. Understand?'

'Right. Because then they might figure out why I'm doing it and find out about my dad.'

Snape's look was withering, almost weary. 'That's right.'

'But there isn't much here,' Harry said, holding the bottle perfectly vertical and peering at the line of liquid that sat stolidly at his thumb. 'Should I come back to you when—'

'It is temporary only.'

'But—'

'You are not to be dependent on something such as this.'

'But I'm not going to stop. It's important.' Harry clutched the vial that guaranteed he would not slack off from making sure Voldemort could not get into his thoughts and discover he knew the truth about his dad.

'It's a temporary solution,' Snape repeated. But he seemed less certain. He turned on his heel and strode to the door. 'Who knows,' he said with more confidence, pulling the handle, 'something might even stick this time. I suppose stranger things have happened.'

Harry decided not to press the subject. There was always a point with Snape when it was best just to let it go. He sensed this was one of those points as he stepped into the corridor holding the bottle close to his chest. He felt Snape's eyes on him as he passed; the glass was now warm and moist in his hand. It was already his.

Maybe he was planning on coming up with a better potion? That must be it. It was the least Snape could do after putting his dad in danger by trying to make him reduce his Occlumency practice.

He didn't even care that Snape was obviously saving up what he had learned from what Harry had blurted out the other day for another, more public, occasion. It didn't bother him that Snape wanted to make him sweat some more on that. He felt like a burden had been lifted from him. His steps back up the stairs were as light as the bottle in his hand.


	9. Tactics

**_9. Tactics_**

A layer of dust gathered on Snape's fingertips as he ran them along the books' worn spines. He paused at a black cover with bold silver lettering, and hastily removed his hand. That dark stain looked suspiciously like blood.

What on earth was he doing here, he wondered, letting his arm drop to his side. There had been a time when he had taken secret delight in sneaking in to pore over the treasure-trove of Dark magic in the school library. Even in broad daylight he had often succeeded in evading Madam Pince to step over the ropes marking out the Restricted Section, to hunch, undetected, in a corner and devour such collections as _Secrets of Spell-Making Deciphered. __Volume III: Constructing Cunning Curses had been one of the most inspiring._

But he had no use for the past.

Today he had his own healthy collection at home. It was smaller, and was duller for boasting none of the rarer older titles that as a schoolboy he had handled with precious care. But it often had its uses when any Death Eaters paid an unexpected call. And he enjoyed the image it presented. It was important, in this as well as other things, that from the outset no one was in any doubt as to what to expect from him. It saved a lot of bother later on. And further uninvited visits.

He belonged here, among these archaic texts declaring their hidden strength to those blessed few who would understand them. But he was struck by the greater meaning now in that sense of belonging. He was here today only because of the Dark Lord's magic. The surrounding books took on a macabre feel; those on necromancy were lurking on a shelf just to the left. Perhaps one day someone would write one about him. The Dark Lord was writing Snape's story still it seemed. But it was the Dark Lord's mistake to believe the pages of his own were not numbered.

He moved on to the shelves above, until his eyes fell on one that appeared promising. Extracting the leather-bound volume, he held it at arm's length so as not to breathe in the cloud of dust it released. The contents did indeed warrant further study.

Two more potentially interesting books later, and he had enough material to make a start on his research.

He gave the shelves one final cursory look. At the end of the row thick-set lettering, green against red, caught his eye. An internal debate struck up in him again. He had been toying with it ever since Lucius had first planted the tempting idea in his head. He edged closer and frowned at the spine, garish and loud as though it were audibly arguing its case for inclusion in his studies.

Although not technically Dark magic, all books on Animagi were restricted by the Ministry, plainly wishing to avoid grisly mishaps by overzealous students. It was a regulation that had not quelled his own teenage interest, of course. He had made the first tentative attempts, back then. But it had quickly become clear his time was better spent pursuing more useful subjects. From the little he knew on the topic, it took more than mere desire to successfully become an Animagus. It must be worked at, and was most easily achieved before adolescence. At his age now, he had little chance, even if he dedicated the rest of his life to the goal.

But James Potter had already done much of the work for him. Perhaps, he reasoned, gazing at the gaudy spine of _Animagi: Discover the Animal Within_, he would transform into a creature useful to the role of spy. If small, like Pettigrew's rat, it would give him the ability to reach places others could not. The advantage that would present would be invaluable. It was an opportunity it would be foolish to dismiss.

And if the worst came to the worst and his initial attempts led to a lumbering stag, he at least would have a base to work from, to mould into a more useful form. No doubt Potter would not make it easy for him.

He weighed the risks against the potential benefits. He would have to take care practising. But he would get to that. For now, there would be no harm in reading the book. He was about to reach for it when he sensed movement in an aisle just beyond the boundary rope.

Few students were in the library so early on Saturdays. It was why he had come here now. He peered through a gap in the shelves, catching the shadow of an old thrill as he imagined the omnipresent Pince rounding the corner. Perhaps it was another teacher – although that would be little better, considering the material in his hands.

But any anxiety he might have felt was swept aside for annoyance as he saw the scrawny hair and owl-like glasses.

At least the Potter boy could not come nosing around his part of the library. But it was disconcerting to see him hovering close by. He was flipping through a thin wide book, like a picture-book or manual of some kind. Why did that infernal librarian put the Quidditch books at the back right next to the Restricted Section? It was simply inviting trouble. It was irritating to find he was trapped here, like a mischievous child. He kept watch and very still, calling easily on a skill he had first begun to refine in these very aisles.

The leisurely way Potter was leafing through the book suggested he would not be leaving anywhere near quickly enough.

It was some consolation the boy was no longer drawing attention to himself around the school – at least in terms of the side-effects of his excessive Occlumency practice. There would be no relinquishing of his celebrity status, of course.

But there was the boy's strange little outburst after class the other week.

It was unsettling to dwell on. It was as though it had not been Potter talking.

Stress – it had plainly been the stress of pushing the link he shared with the Dark Lord. But Snape had found nothing untoward inside the boy's head as he had prattled on – no suggestion the Dark Lord was manipulating him – nor any deceit on Potter's part.

In fact he had never seen a mind so open at that moment. It had seemed to rush to meet him, embrace him, so that he had pulled back as soon as he had seen enough.

It was difficult to consider just where they had come from, those words. They had not been Potter's. They could not have been further from Potter's. They belonged to neither Potter.

Indeed, the boy could not have been channelling his father – his father would not have recognised his words, would have scoffed at them. Such concepts as the son had uttered had been too subtle for the father.

Still, he reminded himself as he watched a page being turned, the potion the boy now had would prevent any more unnerving demonstrations.

It seemed it would remain a mystery.

'Hiding from me?' The young voice carried a malicious edge, and Draco came into view as Potter turned.

What was this, Snape wondered: had Quidditch finally managed to worm its way onto the school curriculum?

'Why the hell would I be hiding from you?' said Potter.

'Oh, I think you know.' Draco appeared extraordinarily sure of himself.

'Yeah? Why're you following me, Malfoy? And don't say you're not. Because how else would you know where the library is?'

Draco put up a decent fight to maintain the confidence in his smirk. When it was clear he was losing it, he made some movement Snape could not follow through the small space between shelves. '_Accio_.'

'Give it back, Malfoy.'

Draco's easy smirk returned as he examined the book he had summoned out of Potter's hand. 'You're gonna need all the help you can get this year,' he said, thumbing nonchalantly through what was plainly some tactic-laden Quidditch manual.

'That's what _you_ think. Just grow up and give it back.'

'You know what? This looks like it might come in handy. Mind if I take it out first?' He shot a wide smile at an angry-looking Potter.

Snape did not need to be a seer to predict this squabble was about to devolve into a hexing match.

-x-

'I said give it back, Malfoy.' Harry reached beneath his robes.

'Potter!'

He turned with Malfoy to see Snape advancing on them, a pile of books in his arms. Malfoy looked delighted.

'What are you doing?' Snape stared at Harry.

Harry's fingers tightened around his wand. 'Trying to get my book back.'

'And as I've been explaining,' said Malfoy, 'I'll return it straight away. But it seems Potter's _insisting_ he wants it first, sir.'

'Indeed? Be reasonable, Potter, and wait your turn like everyone else. Or is that beyond your amazing capabilities?'

Harry made an effort to rein in his now-doubled loathing.

'That's all right, sir.' Malfoy closed _Sweeping the Field: Best-Kept Quidditch Secrets_ and held it out. 'We don't need any help anyway. Gryffindor needs it a lot more than us this year.'

'Well, take it, Potter. Very generous of you, Draco.'

Harry raged inside as he extended an arm.

'Ten points to Slytherin,' said Snape, infuriating Harry further. 'And twenty points from Gryffindor.'

Harry glared. 'What for?'

Snape returned the glare tenfold. 'For impertinence.'

Malfoy's greedy smile as Snape swept away with his books looked to be threatening to engulf his face. 'Well, I can't hang around here all day watching you grasp at straws.' He grinned and glanced at the Quidditch manual Harry was squeezing. 'Try to remember what the big field is for – we don't want you forgetting – thrashing Gryffindor is nowhere _near_ as much fun without you.'

He strode away, and Harry turned to see Snape two aisles down. He wasn't going to let this pass. 'That was unfair,' he said as he caught up to him.

A sneer was curling Snape's lips. 'I beg your pardon?'

'It was obvious Malfoy had taken the book off me, not the other way round.'

'Is that so?' said Snape coldly.

'So why take points off Gryffindor?'

'I recall,' said Snape with annoying calmness, apparently enjoying Harry's anger, 'you referring to them as – I quote – "stupid bloody points".'

Harry stared, his reply smouldering his throat. But it was just like Snape to throw something like that back in his face. He wasn't going to lose it like he had at the end of class when they had argued over Occlumency. He had been worried about his dad then, but now all he saw was Snape's smirk of amusement.

Snape was watching him seethe. He had thinned his mouth, but Harry kept his shut.

'I suppose it does require a modicum of intelligence.' Snape's expression had turned sullen. 'Tell me, were you expecting me to deduct points?'

Would Malfoy grow up to be a world-class moron? Already this year Snape must have taken hundreds of points off Gryffindor. 'Yeah.' Harry concentrated his rage in the small hard word.

'_Sir_,' said Snape, finally conceding some reproof. His eyes narrowed. 'Was Mr Malfoy expecting the same?'

He ought to go now – just walk out and leave Snape to his patronising questions. But he felt trapped by them: they both incensed and entranced him. 'Yes,' he said, '_sir_.'

But Snape said nothing. Harry waited for the nasty punchline.

'Surely even someone as dim as you cannot fail to see a Malfoy always gets what he expects?'

His gaze was withering. But it shifted as Harry felt his own glare wane. Harry looked beyond the insult about himself, to the one about the Malfoys – and Snape saw it. He set his thin mouth and held his books closer. His nostrils flared, but he was silent, calculating. Snape had told him more than he had wanted to. And he would make Harry pay for learning something about his relationship with the Malfoys.

He tried to think of an excuse to get away. Black eyes were sliding over his face. They crept across his scar. It tingled under the cold scrutiny, as though it were remembering the first day they had set eyes on each other, when Snape had been talking with Voldemort-possessed Quirrell.

'Wait here.' Snape marched away, leaving Harry in the aisle with his Quidditch book, thinking over what had just happened. He recalled Snape's reaction in the school infirmary last summer when he had mentioned seeing Lucius Malfoy in the graveyard with the newly returned Voldemort. Snape had turned away, not wanted him to see what he thought.

He must have misunderstood Snape's remark just now. He had never heard him say anything against Lucius Malfoy, or Draco. And he hadn't now, had he? Harry had misread what he had said. He was thinking too much about his dad in relation to Snape - his dad had to trick and fool the Death Eaters to spy on them, but Snape would always think highly of the Malfoys. A Malfoy always got what he expected simply because he always did. He was a Malfoy. There was no trickery there.

'Page one hundred and thirty-seven.' Snape was holding out a thin book bound in black. Its dark cover was blank, as was its spine. 'Well, find the page,' barked Snape as Harry turned it in his hand.

Harry wedged the Quidditch manual under his arm. He opened Snape's book.

'Now you will understand the real risks of excessively Occluding a growing mind – and this does not even take into consideration your link with the Dark Lord – which increases the dangers immeasurably.'

Was the book about Occlumency? How could he tell? It was so full of jargon it might as well have been in a foreign language.

He didn't know what Snape's problem was. He was taking the potion he had given him, and it seemed to be working. He could stay alert in classes again, and he was sleeping better than ever before. Even Snape must understand some risks were worth taking to ensure the safety of others?

He gave up after a few lines and simply pretended to read, hoping Snape would leave. He wondered if his dad did Occlumency – he supposed he must, as he and Snape did more or less the same job. They worked together. It was hard to imagine. Lupin had called it 'an awkward union'. Harry thought that must be something of an understatement, considering what he had seen of how his dad had treated Snape when they had been kids. And everything Sirius said suggested Snape always gave as good as he got. 'Professor?' He blinked away the tangle of words imprinted on his retina. 'Is my dad an Occlumens?'

Snape was still frowning. 'Well, what do you think?'

'Did you teach him?'

An odd expression fell across Snape's face. His jaw twitched. 'Such discussions are not for public places.'

Harry glanced about. The aisles were empty and silent. Hardly anyone came in here on a sunny Saturday morning.

But then he heard the rustling of robes. He slammed shut the Occlumency book and slid it beneath the Quidditch manual.

'That's a restricted book.' Madam Pince was already pointing an accusing finger when she appeared. Harry stared down in bemusement, wondering how she could possibly know, since the only portion of the book visible was its dark blank spine.

'I gave it to him,' said Snape.

'You need a note from a teacher to take out restricted books, boy,' she pursued, ignoring Snape, who, Harry noticed, was scowling at her remarkably like Ron had done the other day at an ink stain that refused to shift from his Potions essay.

'He has permission from me.'

She eyed Snape with apparent suspicion. 'I must have a note. For my records.'

Harry shifted. Part of him wanted to tell Snape the book was obviously too advanced to be of any use to him anyway. But the look on his face as he glared at the librarian was so intense, Harry decided it might be best to wait this one out.

Snape was digging his fingers into his own pile of books; his knuckles stood out stark white against the rest of his sallow skin. 'I need a quill and parchment,' he muttered.

To Harry's astonishment, she whisked out from somewhere about her person a clipboard with a quill attached. Probably, he thought, used to write critical notes about students as she prowled the library, like Filch did around the rest of the Castle. But it seemed he wasn't the only one who hadn't been expecting this. An infuriated Snape thrust his books into Harry's arms. Madam Pince, oblivious to Harry's struggles under the weight of the additional books, peered at Snape as he scrawled his authorisation.

Harry wished he had stayed in bed a few hours longer after all.

He glanced down at Snape's books, unsurprised to find the topmost title in an unfamiliar language. Curiosity gnawed as he listened to the slow scrape of quill on rough parchment. He twisted the pile so he could glance at the spines. The second had fancy lettering too – but the last one looked interesting. Snape was still engrossed in his tight script as Harry slipped the book out to the top. He opened the cover to the blurb inside.

_THE POWER OF THE SOUL!_

_The Magical Core; Wizards' Bonds; Fidelius Charms; and much, much more!_

_Brand new for the 1906 tricentenary edition – special article on the Dementor's Kiss!_

'I trust that is satisfactory.' Snape was glaring as he handed the note to Madam Pince.

She took her time scrutinising it, as though it might be carrying some hidden message, then uttered a terse, 'It will do.' She shot Harry one last accusatory stare before leaving to stalk the other aisles.

After a lingering, withering look at the retreating librarian, Snape turned back to Harry. 'If anyone asks, you stole it,' he said, indicating the Occlumency book. 'No one would believe you incapable of illicit trips to the Restricted Section.'

Frowning at the guilty look Harry was trying to conceal at this reminder of his sole 'illicit trip' right under Snape's nose in first year, Snape's gaze lowered to the opened book in Harry's arms.

To Harry's amazement, Snape blanched and snatched the entire pile, slamming shut the top book before Harry had the chance to see what had made him react.

'Well?' said Snape, acting as though nothing odd had just occurred, his customary glare fixed to his features.

'Er, yeah.' Harry gazed at the Occlumency book – and the Quidditch manual – Snape was now clutching with the others as though his life depended upon it. 'Er … my, er, books?' he said, hoping Snape would notice he was empty-handed. He wasn't bothered about the Occlumency book. Although if Snape insisted he have it, he could stow it at the bottom of his trunk and pray Snape didn't test him on its contents. But he at least wanted the Quidditch manual back.

Snape finally deciphered his gaze and looked down. With a glower, he pulled out the bottom two and handed them over. His robes billowed as he strode toward the Potions section.

Harry clasped the Quidditch book. Malfoy wouldn't know what hit him come the next game. He made his way to the check-out table. He couldn't wait for the afternoon's practice to try the new manoeuvre he had spotted. It would knock them dead.


	10. He was the Reason

_**10. He was the reason**_

Moody's bright blue magical eye rolled around in its socket before coming to rest on Snape again.

Snape was not fooled. He met its gaze. _If only you_ could _see right into people as the rumours would have us believe._

It was no secret Mad-Eye Moody distrusted him more than any other member of the Order – including Black – but Snape could not resist a wry inward smirk at the thought of concealing from the Auror a secret no amount of room-ransacking could have uncovered. Oh, he knew it had really been a Polyjuice-intoxicated Crouch who had turned over his office last year. But that did nothing to lessen Snape's loathing for the man now sitting opposite. Either it was merely his own paranoia, or Moody's detection of it, that the demonic eye was pointing in his direction more often lately. Constant vigilance indeed.

'Thank you,' said Dumbledore as Arthur's report came to an end. Glancing around the kitchen table over his spectacles, his gaze came to rest on Snape.

Anyone else, Snape considered, might have gone insane long ago reporting regularly for both sides. Double that of everyone else, exponentially more so this past year since the Dark Lord's return. And teaching on top of that, which was arguably no less stressful. Not to mention keeping an eye on the boy. But there was something satisfying about having his mind so occupied. Indeed, in all likelihood there was no better guarantee of sanity.

'Severus?' said Dumbledore.

Snape felt all eyes move towards him expectantly as their link to the heart of the Dark Lord's plans. All expectant, that is, except for Moody's magical one and, to its right, Black's suspicious two. 'It seems,' he began, relishing the attention his duties attracted, even if it was from this ragtag assembly, 'we were correct in our suspicions. The possibility of a planned attack is becoming more and more apparent.'

'Possibility?' said Black. 'Don't you _know_?'

It was odd, Snape reflected, how Black habitually questioned his loyalties and yet remained eager for definite news from him. 'It appears the plans, as always, are not well thought-out,' he told Dumbledore, avoiding Black's stare. 'Their talk is mostly in the form of bragging about the destruction they will cause. Nevertheless, I believe it is almost certain the target is Hogsmeade.'

There was a thick silence as the group took this information in. Dumbledore broke their uneasy thoughts. 'And are you any nearer to ascertaining a specific date?'

'No. But I have a hunch it may fall on one of the school-outing days.'

'Indeed?' said Dumbledore. 'That would be most serious. What makes you believe this?'

'Because I've noticed a certain pattern of questioning by some, about the school routine. The trips to Hogsmeade in particular. Their dates, who normally goes on them. Of course their own children attend Hogwarts, but it isn't normally the topic of choice among the Death Eaters.'

'So the scum are after innocent children, eh?' said Moody gruffly. Molly made a light noise, and Arthur covered her hand.

'What if they're planning on a particular student being there?' said Nymphadora to Lupin's left.

Snape inwardly groaned. It was only a matter of time until a reference to the pint-sized celebrity was made during an Order meeting.

'Well,' said Dumbledore, 'it certainly does seem odd to plan for a day when most of Hogwarts will be there. As you say, many themselves have children attending. And with the teachers there too.' He surveyed Snape. 'Are you sure? It would be rather strange if they expected you to be there supervising the students.'

'Of course I cannot be certain. All I can say is there has been recent interest in the school routine, and the planned raid appears to be on Hogsmeade. Whether the two are linked…'

'Unless,' said Dumbledore slowly, 'they _are_ planning on your attendance.'

'Maybe you've been rumbled, Snape,' exclaimed Moody, his magical eye staring across the table. Snape could have sworn Black had sniggered.

'We have to consider the possibility they expect you to be there, if indeed this plan is set for a Hogsmeade trip.' Dumbledore looked gravely at Snape. 'You must attend them as usual. And remain neutral if anything does transpire. By not taking part, there will be less chance of you being suspected.'

Black muttered something that sounded like 'useless'.

'Perhaps you would like to be kept informed, Black, so you could help out when a raid occurs?' said Snape. 'Ah, no – I forgot – you must remain here to brew the tea for when we return with our reports.'

Black's eyes glistened with fury.

'Do you think that's wise?' said Minerva, deftly glossing over the tiff, and curtailing Snape's pleasure. 'Wouldn't it seem stranger if Severus _did_ attend, with his knowledge of the attack?'

'But Severus does not know of the attack,' said Dumbledore. 'Merely assumptions of where and when it will take place. If we knew specifics, perhaps I would agree with you, but as it is … I think it best if we follow that plan until we do know more. Agreed?'

Snape nodded his assent under the watchful gaze of Moody's blue orb. Dumbledore was right, of course. He could not be seen fighting alongside the Order. And it would be risky even to pretend to fight against the Order merely to keep his cover. He could later cite his continued worth as spy on Dumbledore for his lack of participation, and his aversion to aiding the Order as the reason for remaining neutral.

The meeting came to an end, and with a clatter of plates over the hum of the room, Molly cleared away the remains of cakes and biscuits and half-drunk tea.

'Severus, I have this report I would like you to go over.' Dumbledore handed him a parchment. 'It provides further details of January's breakout at Azkaban. Alastor, Kingsley, could I have a word?' He turned back to Snape. 'I shall return shortly,' he said, and retreated in the direction of the drawing room followed by Moody and Shacklebolt.

As the remaining Order members left, some by the front door, some using Floo powder, Snape retook his seat at the kitchen table and studied the untidy, almost illegible, writing of a Ministry quill-pusher.

From what he could gather, it appeared rumours the Ministry was losing control of the Dementors were true; they were hardly contributing to the search for the escapees. It would not be long, Snape speculated, before the Dark Lord claimed the Dementors as among his followers.

His face scrunched in concentration. Squinting at the scribbled words under the poor lighting, he caught a glimpse of familiar shabby robes. 'Lupin, spell the lights up. I can barely read this appalling scrawl.'

Through the silence that followed, Snape continued attempting to interpret the lazy writing – until the unmistakable voice of Black growled, 'Why don't you do it yourself, Snape?'

'That's all right, Sirius, I've got it,' said Lupin as Snape raised his head to see Black, arms folded, staring at him from across the room.

'Something wrong with your magic, Snape?' spat Black, while Lupin spelled the lights brighter.

Snape was sorely tempted to tell Black exactly what was wrong with his magic.

Clearly misinterpreting the pause as confirmation, Black taunted, 'So, you really _are_ useless?' and raised his eyebrows.

Snape felt unnervingly as he had done at Hogwarts years ago when Black and Potter used to corner him while Lupin watched from the sidelines. In fact, he thought ruefully, only the rat's presence was needed to complete the picture.

'Very convenient,' said Black, 'wangling your way out of helping the Order in any attack.'

'And you're the expert on that, aren't you, Black?' sneered Snape softly.

He ignored the jibe. 'I suppose you're going to use your inadequacies in the magic department as an excuse, too?'

'Inadequacies? If I have any inadequacies, I wonder just whose fault they are?'

'Well, they're certainly not Remus's – so stop using him to make up for them.'

'He's not using me, Sirius.' But Black was keeping his gaze fixed on Snape, who could almost hear the horribly bright smile as Lupin tried another tack. 'Anyone fancy some tea?'

'Perhaps Potter's, then?' Snape whispered.

'What! Trying to pin something else on Harry … _Snivellus_?'

'Not _that_ Potter.'

As soon as Black pulled out his wand, Snape shot from his chair and did the same. He flicked his eyes between Black's wand and his reddening face.

'How dare you speak ill of the dead!' Black circled the table. 'You make me sick, Snivellus!'

Snape fixed a malicious sneer to his lips. 'Dead?'

'Both of you, _stop_!'

Snape took his eyes off Black for a second to jeer back at Lupin, 'I thought you wanted me to tell him?'

Lupin turned his weak resolve to their outstretched wands. 'Not like this.'

'Tell me what?' He threw a questioning glance towards Lupin, who avoided his gaze. Black stared back at Snape and raised his voice further. 'I don't want to hear any more high-blown tales about how you supposedly risk your neck for the Order, Snivellus. I couldn't give two Snitches!'

'Now, now,' bellowed Moody from just outside in the hall, and when Black had reverted to a simple threatening stare, a _clump, clump_ could be heard as the veteran Auror entered the room. 'We're all on the same side.' He turned his magical eye on Snape. 'Aren't we?'

Snape gritted his teeth and replaced his wand. Grabbing the Ministry report from the table, he strode into the hallway, where Nymphadora and Molly were chatting in a corner in hushed tones.

Why should he fill Black in on the facts, and give him the satisfaction of knowing his old friend Potter had succeeded where he had failed in his attempt to kill the object of their ridicule?

'Ah, could I have a brief word, Severus?' said Dumbledore from the drawing room doorway.

He moved past him into the room, and heard a click as Dumbledore closed the door.

Curious as to why he needed such privacy to discuss the Ministry's report, Snape turned to see him remove from his robes a small bottle.

'What is it?' said Snape. Its silvery contents swirled within its glass confines, and he recognised it at once. He took the proffered vial, wondering why the man was handing him his memories.

'While at Azkaban recently,' said Dumbledore, 'I took the opportunity to visit Flintoff. I persuaded him to relinquish it.'

Snape frowned at the swirling memory. 'What is it of?' But he knew as soon as he had asked – for what other memory belonging to that Death Eater meant anything to him? – and answering his own question, the shards dislodged from his throat. 'Godric's Hollow.'

At Dumbledore's silent confirmation, he exclaimed, 'And why do you think I would wish to see this?'

'You do not have your own memory of the events. You were incapacitated—'

'I rather think the word you mean is "deceased".'

'Severus, I think it would help you to see things objectively. Sometimes, I find the use of a Pensieve aids me a great deal. But it is your choice. You may dispose of it as you wish.'

Dumbledore's reference to choices crystallised his jumbled thoughts toward Lupin's earlier comments on the Headmaster's opinion. Now would be as good a time as any to bring the subject up. At the worst, he could only confirm what Snape believed the old man thought anyway. He drew a few determined breaths then said, 'Why do you trust me?'

Those infuriating clear blue eyes, as unfathomable as the deepest ocean, looked startled for a moment, then quickly focused on him appraisingly. 'You know why.'

Snape felt a lip quirk. 'No, Dumbledore. That was not trust. You spotted an opportunity, and you took it. Fourteen years have passed since then.' He resisted the urge to shake the vial in the man's face. 'And the Dark Lord has returned. So I ask again: why do you trust me?'

Dumbledore studied him. He knew he had never asked this before, not in all these years. But everything was different now.

'Whenever have you given me reason not to?' said Dumbledore at last. His dismissive reply maddened Snape; he made it sound as though it were obvious.

'Answer my question.'

'But I can give no other answer.'

'Perhaps it is this –' and now Snape did wave the memory in the air, so that wisps of it eddied inside the glass '– this that proves my loyalty.'

Dumbledore frowned. 'I do not see how that can be—'

'No? But you must see how things have been. I have not had the tarnished soul of a Death Eater all these years. It is him. It is him you trust.' He felt like shoving the vial down the man's throat. But instead he squeezed it in his fist as he watched Dumbledore watching him, and hoped it would crack.

'Do you really believe James's soul to be faultless?'

Snape felt a heat spring to life low in his belly. 'Don't you see it? Him! He was the reason … Him, not…' The fire was rising now, snatching his breath.

Dumbledore seemed finally to understand – something, at least. 'Choices,' he said. 'It is our choices that define us. You of all people know that.'

'But—'

'No.' He held up a hand. 'You know your own reasoning, over the years. Only you know why you made the choices you did. Were they – are they – James's memories you call upon? Those memories most precious to you – you have more of them than even he had.'

Snape stayed silent. The old goat knew exactly how to pull his emotional strings. It was he who had handed that power to him, after all.

Dumbledore provided his own nod of confirmation. 'I think, then, the reasons were yours.'

Snape scowled. He would not be manipulated so easily.

'I think you would benefit from an objective viewpoint.' Dumbledore gestured to the vial. 'Which is partly why I procured this for you.'

Snape glared. 'So… The werewolf has been talking?'

'Remus did express some concern. But not on the issue of trust. You must learn to put more faith in people's sincerity.' Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. 'Including your own.'

Snape scrutinised the vial without seeing it. No, he would not be manipulated so easily. Not by Dumbledore, not by anyone. Least of all that big-headed idiot James Potter.

In fact, if anything, it was him controlling Potter, not the other way around.

He smirked to himself. Perhaps Lucius had been right after all. It was indeed poetic justice for the man who had pervaded his life when alive. In death, Potter was simply making up for injuries.

No, it was plain nothing of any of this was Potter's doing. Because Potter's biggest concern had always been Potter. He'd had no sense of practicalities.

Practicalities. Perhaps he would take a look at that Animagi book after all. It was about time James Potter showed himself useful for something.

'It may be best,' said Dumbledore, bringing Snape out of these promising thoughts, 'if we told Sirius the truth – it could help to prevent difficult moods developing during meetings.'

'What? Black would only hate me _more_. And if he didn't…' He could hardly bear thinking of that possibility. 'It's bad enough with Lupin – but if _Black_ began to treat me like an old friend as well, like I was one of their gang, the mindless Marauders… I shan't be held responsible for my actions.'

And he wouldn't be. He'd blame it on Black's old friend, and Black could go hang.

Dumbledore sighed. 'Well, perhaps you will change your mind if you decide to take a look at this,' he said, indicating the memory. 'And if you obtain further information on this potential raid, please inform me straight away.'

When he had gone, Snape took a moment to fold the Ministry report and tuck it with the memory into a pocket of his robes. He swept out into the hallway.

'Everything all right?' asked Lupin as Snape removed his travelling cloak from the stand.

'Utterly wonderful,' he drawled. He noticed Nymphadora disappearing through the front doorway as he fastened his cloak, her hair a drab brown. 'Babysitting Black again?'

Lupin stole a glance at her retreating back. 'He's lonely cooped up in this big house.'

'And the Dementors were perfect company for him in Azkaban, I suppose?'

Lupin frowned.

'You're a fool to fritter your life away minding Black.'

'He's a friend. Why shouldn't I be worried about him?'

'How touching. But if the Dementors couldn't contain him, then I doubt you stand a better chance, not if he truly wants to leave the house and endanger the Order.'

'I have to try. He keeps threatening to leave – and you're not helping.'

Snape snorted. If Black wanted to risk being caught or killed now his Animagus form was widely known, that was his call. He was an idiot to have allowed himself to be seen in plain view on the station platform at the start of school, since he was still a wanted murderer – and he would die an idiot's death, Snape was certain of that.

'Well – good luck.' Snape strode out into the cool night air.

As soon as he had stepped beyond the harsh orange beam of a street lamp, he Disapparated to the gates of Hogwarts.

A brisk walk across the school grounds later, he reached the privacy of his dungeons office. Setting his cloak down on a chair, he pulled from his pocket the Ministry report, dragging with it the bottled memory it had become partially wrapped around.

He still had the Pensieve for Potter's Occlumency lessons. He could use it tomorrow.

He gazed at the vial, transfixed by the feathery mass bathed in candlelight. It appeared insubstantial, floating inside its glass cage. But it was weighted with meaning.

He peeled his eyes away.

He had already made his decision. He would no longer be dictated to by James Potter. No – Dumbledore had made it clear tonight it had never been the case. That last shred of doubt lifted from him like the retreat of a Dementor. And he felt the last vestige of control James Potter had over him evaporate with it.

He looked back at the bottle. There would be no point indulging in sick fantasies of watching Potter being forced into resurrecting his favourite school prey.

But it would not do to dispose of the memory just yet. The Ministry may find some heinous crime Flintoff had been responsible for. The incarcerated Death Eater could be condemned to the Dementor's Kiss at any time, closing his memories off from the outside world forever. Watching Dumbledore's ghoulish gift rise and fall against the glass, he decided upon the perfect place to store it securely.

In the small square cabinet fixed to the wall, he set down the silver memory next to the vial the Dark Lord had given him the previous evening.

He gazed at the two bottles on the top shelf. A contrasting pair, he thought dryly as he observed their contents – one light and silver, one a dense black liquid. The Dark Lord had charged him with keeping the latter safe and close at hand until he required it. Snape had carefully checked the contents, which were harmless enough, but extremely difficult to brew, and perhaps why he had requested its close protection. He had learned long ago not to question the Dark Lord's logic – nor Dumbledore's, for that matter. Both bordered on insanity at times.

_It was certainly lunacy to resurrect me, wasn't it, my Lord?_

He locked the cabinet carefully, closing the door on one assignment from the Dark master, one from the other. Neither of which would he touch.


	11. If You Go Down to the Woods Tonight

**_11. If you go down to the woods tonight_**

Harry shut the Herbology book and sat back in his chair. Most of the other fifth years around the classroom, assigned as a study room for the evening, appeared to be having the same idea. Even Hermione was chatting with Lavender. After all the OWL work over the Easter holidays – most of which had been helpfully scheduled for him by Hermione – Harry found himself looking forward to the new term and the prospect of something – _anything_ – to break up the endless studying monotony.

He put away his books and strolled across to Ron. He was frowning at his study timetable. 'Look at this,' he said as Harry approached. 'It's just physically impossible. D'you think McGonagall'd let me have a Time-Turner like she did Hermione the other year? I mean, _how_ can it be fair _she's_ allowed one when she knows everything anyway?'

'Yeah, but I get the feeling McGonagall might see exams a bit different. Could be seen as cheating, you know?'

'What was that?' asked Hermione, clearly having heard a study keyword. 'If you stick to that until exams,' she said, pointing to Ron's schedule, 'you won't need to think about cheating.'

Ron did not take the bait. He folded the timetable and stuffed it in his bag while he fixed her with a sullen stare.

'No, no,' Luna was saying by the open window. 'Over there. Daddy says there must be some in the Forest. Look in _that_ direction.'

'I _know_ where to look,' said Neville, whom she seemed to be instructing, 'but I'm telling you, there's nothing out there.'

'Well, you're not looking in the right place, then.'

'Are those Omnioculars?' Harry asked.

Neville took the device from his eyes. 'Yeah,' he said, twiddling one of its many knobs. 'They're Luna's.'

'They're my dad's,' she corrected. 'You see, he uses them on his hunting trips and he lent them to me so I could report back on the sightings of Karpola Borogoves in this area. There's quite a buzz about it all, you know. They only come out at night, so we're using the nocturnal setting to see them.'

Harry and Ron gave each other sideways looks. 'So, er, seen any, Neville?' asked Ron.

'Nah,' put in Seamus, who had overheard this last part as he was passing. 'He's only seen the Lesser-Spotted Snape. Or should that be Greater-Spotted, with all that grease? Anyway, Neville's probably given himself enough nightmares to last till exams.'

Neville frowned at Seamus's back disappearing through the doorway.

'Bad luck, Neville,' consoled Ron in a tight voice that suggested some effort to restrain amusement.

'I wonder what Professor Snape's doing out there at this time?' said Hermione.

'Perhaps he's heard of the sightings, too,' said Luna as she gazed out at the pitch-black Castle grounds.

'He's been going to the Forest nearly every night for at least the past week now,' explained Neville. 'Luna thinks he's on to something.'

Ron gave Harry another look and bent his head in a last-ditch attempt to hold in the mirth.

'That's strange,' said Hermione, doing her best to ignore the peculiar noises coming from Ron's nose.

'It's a full moon soon,' said Luna. 'They're very difficult to find then because they don't come out during a full moon,' she said, as though it was obvious this was the reason behind Snape's night-time excursions. 'If you look over there…' she began, pointing out the Forest again to Neville.

But he promptly moved from the window and handed her the Omnioculars. 'Maybe you'll have better luck than me,' he said, frowning at Ron still trying to contain himself. 'I'm gonna check on Trevor.'

Luna sighed as he collected his things and left. She appeared disappointed. Then, in an almost melodic way, she said, 'Good things only come to those who wait.'

'Well, Snape isn't worth waiting for,' pointed out Ron.

Luna gave him a disparaging glance and flounced out of the classroom. It was emptying rapidly now; with exams coming up in a few weeks, many of the older students were retiring to their dormitories earlier so, in theory, they could cram in as much studying as possible during the day.

Closing the window, Hermione asked Ron and Harry, 'But what _is_ Snape doing in the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night?'

'Wonder if Hagrid knows anything?'

'Yeah, maybe some of his pets have _mysteriously_ been going missing over the past week,' suggested Ron.

'Perhaps he's meeting someone in secret,' offered Hermione.

'Whoa!' said Ron, raising his hands. 'I don't want nightmares like Neville, thanks very much.'

Hermione looked blankly at him for a second before turning pink. 'Ron, I didn't mean that kind of … Is that all boys can think of? I meant _spy_ stuff. You know, something for the _Order_.'

'I guess it must be something important to risk the Forbidden Forest,' pondered Harry, 'especially at night.'

'Well he sure isn't out looking for those Crapola thingies. I bet he's up to something and Dumbledore doesn't know. He's already been softening you up for You-Know-Who with all those Occlumency lessons.'

'What?' Harry frowned.

'You always say you feel terrible when you practise.'

'Well, I've been feeling a lot better recently. And anyway, Snape wouldn't try something like that when he's helping my dad – it just wouldn't make any sense.'

'Oh, right,' nodded Ron, reeking of scepticism, 'so you really think he's on our side, now?'

'Yeah – well, maybe I do.' Snape still had not said a single word about his admission to hating being the Boy Who Lived – and Snape had had countless opportunities since then to use it to mock him, both in public and in private. It was too much to hope he had simply forgotten all about it. Then there was that odd thing Snape had said in the library about the Malfoys. He was still trying to work out exactly what it meant, but even if Snape was not on the side of the Order, it appeared he did not like the Malfoys as much as everyone, including Draco, thought he did. It was scant evidence, he knew.

But most importantly, Snape had not given James away to Voldemort in all these years, despite the two men having been sworn enemies at school. If his dad trusted Snape now, then why, Harry thought, shouldn't he too? 'He even made —' He stopped. Snape had told him not to tell anyone about the potion he had given him. But what harm would it really do telling his friends?

'What?' prodded Ron.

'He gave me something – just to stop the side-effects of all the Occlumency practice I'm doing.'

'What – like a potion? And you took it?'

'Yeah, why not? It helped.'

'Right – just Snape helping out his _favourite_ student. It's probably poison! Are you nuts?'

'Really, Ron,' chastised Hermione. 'Who's going to know what potions to best help Harry than a Potions master who's also an Occlumens?'

'It's not _poison_, Ron.' Maybe he should have been more wary, but it had been obvious at the time it was not poisonous by the reluctant way Snape had handed it over. 'I've never felt better – and I've been taking it for ages now.'

'Well, it's probably a slow-acting one.'

'It'd have to be a _really_ slow one, then, because I've nearly used it all.' In fact, Harry reminded himself, he would have to see Snape about some more soon.

'You're crazy,' said Ron. 'I bet he's out there right now meeting up with Death Eaters. Planning an attack on Hogwarts—'

Something clicked in Harry's head. 'You're right,' he cut in.

'What?' Ron blinked. 'You think he's planning to attack Hogwarts? Y'know, I was only joking…'

'Hmm?' Harry was thinking furiously. 'No, I mean about him meeting Death Eaters.' He turned to Hermione. 'Maybe you're _both_ right.'

She and Ron gave each other puzzled looks.

'He's meeting another _Death Eater spy_.' But they did not seem to get it. 'Who's the only other Death Eater spy we know of, who gets his information to the Order through Snape?'

They exchanged another look, but it wasn't one of bemusement this time; rather the opposite. Both diverted their gazes to the floor.

'What?' asked Harry, whose turn it was to be confused while he tried to interpret the sudden change in their body language.

'Well,' she began, 'about that. We…' She glanced at Ron. 'We've been meaning to say something to you.'

'_What?_' demanded Harry, turning from Ron's downcast gaze to Hermione's troubled expression.

'Well, it just seems odd, that's all.' She bit her lower lip. 'You know, that he hasn't tried to contact you himself.'

Harry's heart sank. He did not want them to know the truth about Voldemort taking his dad's memories. 'Well, he _is_ alive,' he said rather angrily, 'Lupin wouldn't lie to me about something like that.'

'Yeah, but,' said Ron, 'it's like you said when you looked in Snape's Pensieve. And maybe … well…' He looked to Hermione.

'Just say whatever you're trying to say,' said Harry, feeling the anger increasing.

'How did he become a Death Eater?' Ron raised his shoulders. 'After what You-Know-Who did to him and his family and—'

'He's _pretending_, Ron. D'you think he _wanted_ to be a Death Eater? Voldemort made him do it, and now he's _pretending_.' Harry turned to Hermione in exasperation. 'Do _you_ think my dad's a genuine Death Eater, too?'

'We just thought it was strange, that's all. I mean, he's your dad and—'

'Exactly,' interrupted Harry. 'He's my _dad_, and he'd never do anything like that in a million years.'

'So why haven't you heard anything from him?' Ron persisted. 'Even now – now you know he's alive? He wouldn't let a little thing like Snape stop him from seeing you. And why would You-Know-Who trust _your dad_, of all people?'

Harry stared at his friends' guilty faces, debating whether or not to tell them the truth. But he could not let them carry on accusing his dad of being no better than the likes of Lucius Malfoy. 'If Voldemort had done that to _your_ family, d'you think _you'd_ want to face up to it all?'

'What d'you mean?'

Harry drew a deep breath. 'Voldemort used a spell on him, something to make him work for him, something that made him … forget who he was, and…' He lowered his gaze. 'And now he doesn't want to remember.' He looked back up at Hermione. 'And if he acknowledged me, then he'd have to deal with all that history, and obviously he doesn't want to. I mean, who would?'

She took this in. 'Don't you think that would be a little drastic,' she asked quietly, 'to cut himself off from his past?'

'As long as he's happy, that's what's important. And anyway, he can't really relate himself to what happened, can he? So it doesn't mean much to him. But it's not his fault,' added Harry. 'He can't remember any of it because of Voldemort.'

She glanced at Ron then looked back at Harry, who was relieved to see her and Ron's previous scepticism giving way to understanding. 'Harry, why didn't you tell us this before?' she asked.

'I … I didn't want you worrying about me.'

'Don't be silly. That's what friends are for.'

'Because I'm all right with it, really,' rushed Harry. 'It's my dad's choice, isn't it? I mean, I'm not gonna force him to…' He looked away. 'Really, I'm fine,' he said, as she touched his shoulder lightly. He forced his gaze to meet hers and brought with it a smile. 'I've got Sirius.'

She smiled sympathetically.

But for the rest of the evening, Harry could not stop thinking about his father having been on the school grounds nearly every night over the past week, perhaps for the whole of the Easter holidays, without his knowledge. And he could even be there right now.

He went to the dormitory that night with his mind whirring. He had finally told his friends the truth and it was an enormous release. He should have said something earlier. But he hated being pitied for being an orphan – he had never blamed his parents for that – but when your father did not _want_ to know you… He was just glad his friends understood he did not need them feeling sorry for him.

The last thing he wanted was for his dad to feel forced into doing something he did not wish to. It might even push him away further, hurt him. His father had been through enough, and even now, for the past fifteen years, he had been risking his life for the Order. Harry was proud of him for that alone. And he wanted to tell him so to his face.

It was with that last thought he checked no one was looking – most were still in the bathroom – and slipped into bed without changing into his pyjamas. He drew the bed curtains closed. As he listened to the room settle down for the night, he thought about Snape's potion.

It really was working; it was working so well he hadn't even realised he had stopped having those crazy dreams of men in a creaky house talking about some kind of – what was it again? – some antidote or other. He was glad of its absence – he had been getting fed up of its endless replays in his head. He wondered whether Snape's potion had some Dreamless Sleeping Potion in it, too. And he could now carry on practising Occlumency as much as he wanted without any nasty side-effects.

And he could tell his dad about what he was doing to protect him. Harry smiled in the dark and pictured what it would be like, what his dad would say to him when he saw how much he meant to Harry. He had a happy half hour imagining it.

The room had gone quiet. He sat up and reached through the curtain. On the bedside table was the Marauder's Map where he had put it earlier in the evening. He pulled it through. '_Lumos_,' he whispered, using his wand behind the drawn curtains. He scanned the old parchment. There it was – somewhere inside the area marked 'Forbidden Forest' – a small black dot labelled 'Severus Snape'. Neville had been right: Snape was there again. There was no other discernable speck nearby, none labelled 'James Potter' or anybody else. Maybe Snape was still waiting for him.

He extinguished his wand. Still in his school robes, he eased on his glasses then his shoes, careful not to wake anyone. Ron was snoring lightly as he crept past. He grabbed his outdoor cloak and stowed his wand inside.

As he stole down the numerous staircases to the front doors, he wished he had kept his Invisibility Cloak a little longer. His heart was thumping at the prospect of seeing his dad for the first time since … well, ever, as far as he was concerned – everything else had been either a cruel echo or an even crueller vision of what could never be.

But the tightness in his chest was not just because of that. He was heading toward Snape. In the Forbidden Forest. After curfew. With no Invisibility Cloak. He wondered whether he had a death wish; Snape could slaughter him then and there and no one would be any the wiser. Maybe he should have told Ron where he was going first.

Too late now, he thought, as he heaved back the bolts to the main entrance. He squeezed through the gap before the old doors creaked and gave him away.

Besides, he assured himself, lighting his wand to find his way past the Quidditch pitch, the risk was worth it. Even the thought of the many man-eating creatures in the Forest could not deter him.

When he was at the Forest edge, he reluctantly put out his light – according to the Map, Snape was still around, somewhere just inside in this direction. But his dad was yet to arrive – and it was still too risky to be seen.

He trod gingerly over exposed roots of huge trees, their tall shadows crowding around, their thick crowns obliterating the stars. He eased along the path, letting his eyes adjust to the heavy darkness that closed in as he moved further into the deadened gloom. The fresh scent of damp foliage assaulted him.

From what he had seen of the Map, Snape was about twenty yards in and to the right of the path. He relit his wand to take another look. Shadows snapped into life under the strength of the light, and Harry dropped the Map.

He fell to his knees and scrabbled around the vines twisting across the ground. He found the Map – and caught sight of a second black speck near Snape's.

He held his breath and peered closer, his heart hammering. But there was no name by it like there was for Snape's. He brought the Map nearer. His breath skimmed the parchment. The dot glided to the very edge of the Map – then slipped to the ground.

_Idiot. It was only soil._ He swore at himself for getting excited over a stupid bit of dirt.

Burying his disappointment, he tucked the Map into his cloak and plunged into the dark with renewed determination. A dead branch nearly sent him to the ground. But he had reached the path, and he steered off to its right, gently swiping aside plants as he picked his way to Snape's location.

He was some way off the path when he heard the first twig.

_Snap!_

He froze. It had come from somewhere to his left. He strained to listen. The darkness was stifling, the shadows overwhelming. They seemed to creep into his soul – almost like Dementors, he thought, shivering in the cold night air, but without the horrifying accompanying memories. He stood for what felt an eternity waiting to make sure there was no vicious creature or —

_Snap!_

His breath quickened. He peered in the direction the sounds had come from. Whatever had caused them was getting closer, he was sure of it. He could see nothing but trees, their giant black figures sentinel-like, taunting him with visions of living things lurking behind their unyielding bodies. The cool wind stirred some nearby shrubbery, and over its soft hush his chest beat a fast rhythm. He carefully drew his wand and pointed it where he had heard the twigs snap. They were resolutely silent now.

It was then a wild thought occurred to him: Maybe it was his dad arriving?

The feeling evolved into a conviction, and it descended on him like a fever. Any fear he'd had of encountering a bloodthirsty beast was burned away by the exhilaration, and a daring thrill overtook him. It _was_. It was his dad. He knew it. Snape was only just beyond those trees over to his right, so it _had_ to be his dad coming to meet him. It _had_ to be. 'Dad?' he whispered, hardly daring to hope for a reply.

An animal howled on the other side of the Forest, cutting through the suffocating silence and displaying the enormity of the woods before him.

'Dad?' he tried again. 'Is that you?'

Nothing.

Far above, a breeze rustled through the treetops.

'It's me – Harry.' He stepped forward, setting his foot on a rock, and slipped.

As he caught himself a strong force yanked him by the collar of his cloak.

Choking as he was dragged backward, and striving to keep his footing as he went, he clung on to his wand while bramble after bramble jabbed into his sides. He tried to grab onto something. But the branches slapped at his arms and hands in admonishment as he was hauled away.


	12. Foolish Dabbling

**_12. Foolish dabbling_**

It was a second before he realised the sky had cleared. And the branches had stopped. He had left the Forest.

He spun around and lashed out with his wand. The ground came up to meet him. His hands were empty. _Wand!_ Where was his wand! He groped desperately in the grass until his fingers curled round its tip. Snatching it up, he flicked it to point at the dark figure towering over where he lay. But it wasn't his voice he heard as the spell boomed out.

'_Expelliarmus!_'

Harry's wand had shot from his hand before he could utter a syllable.

'_Lumos!_'

At first he thought Snape was in full Death Eater dress. His pale face was like a mask in the light beneath it picking out every twist of his fury, his eyes tarred pits, his framing greasy hair a hood over his customary black robes. Harry cringed back into the damp earth. Any relief he might have felt was overpowered by the hate fuelling Snape.

'What did you see?' Snape demanded.

Harry's fear grew at his aggressive manner.

'I said what did you SEE?' And he took a step forward, so that Harry fell to his elbows.

It was the graveyard at Little Hangleton again. There were other Death Eaters here, and they were circling him and Voldemort in the dark.

He had to get up, he knew, as he fought to breathe. He could not just lie here and relive Cedric's death. 'I – I didn't see anything. I was just—' He glanced at the Forest. There was no sign of his dad. Nor any other Death Eater. Just Snape, looking ready to kill him.

Maybe it would have been better if he had in fact been caught by some vicious creature.

'Just _what_? What were you doing in the Forest at night? Tell me! You were following me!'

'No.' It was the truth at least – though he did not explain it was his dad he had been trying to follow. His hopes were sinking with his elbows into the wet ground.

Snape kept his wandlight fixed on him. He seemed to be considering his true intentions. 'Get up,' he ordered at last.

He did not offer to help. Harry levered himself off the grass and brushed clods of mud from his robes, before finding his arm seized in Snape's pincer-like grasp. Snape was leading him to the Castle. But it wasn't until they were by the Quidditch field Harry realised this might be his last chance to see his dad. How could he let Snape take it away from him so readily? In despair he tried to pull back, toward the Forest. 'My dad's in there, isn't he?'

Snape's grip tightened. He strode on unpityingly.

'If he just saw me, maybe—'

But they were almost at the Castle, and he was exhausted in his efforts to release himself from Snape's grasp. The Castle doors loomed ahead. He twisted his arm violently in one last desperate attempt, working through the burn. 'I could help him. We could get through it together—'

'ENOUGH!' Snape flung him through the doors and into the Entrance Hall.

Harry squeezed his throbbing arm. 'You're determined to keep me and my dad apart, aren't you? What have you got against us? You really are _pathetic_…!'

'You will not speak to me like that!' Snape's face was red. He thrust forward a long pallid finger and ground out, 'I've had just about enough of your snooping. You will serve detention in my office this Saturday at one o'clock. Venturing into the Forbidden Forest at _any_ hour day or night is grounds for expulsion. Not even someone as dense as you,' he sneered, 'could fail to notice the clue in its name. Next time, you will not be so fortunate. I guarantee it.'

'But…' Through his disappointment in missing his father, Harry's flailing mind registered only the uncomforting words _detention_ and _this Saturday_. '…Quidditch.'

Snape crossed his arms. Satisfaction curled around his lips. 'So. Now we know your true priorities. How very touching.' His triumph hardened as he held out Harry's wand. 'Get back to bed. Now, Potter!'

Harry snatched his wand.

The marble staircase had never seemed so long. As he trudged up its steps, he felt Snape's victorious stare on his back.

It wasn't true: He would give up Quidditch forever if he could be with his dad for just one day. Hell, for one hour, even, if it meant he could never go near a Snitch ever again.

But it was pointless thinking of these silly conditions, which, if they were only fulfilled, would bring him and his dad closer. Because the fact was Snape would always be an obstacle. He had kept father and son apart for all these years. He was like some massive brick wall barring Harry's way. Why had he stuck up for Snape in front of Ron and Hermione earlier? Snape was a hindrance, not a help, and it was stupid to think he could have seen him as anything else.

It was with some relief Harry managed to sneak back into the dormitory without being heard. And the next morning, Ron did not mention having noticed his absence. Harry could not bring himself to tell him or Hermione what had happened the previous night; he was too ashamed at having done something so stupid, having got nowhere and instead having wound up caught by Snape for his troubles.

And when Saturday came, his detention was every bit as bad as he had imagined.

With relish Snape gave him the task of copying and reordering old detention records from his dad and Sirius's time. Each moment their names came up, Harry's heart seemed to stop.

He just could not fathom Snape. On the one hand, he appeared to still hate James, at least enough to prevent him seeing his son, and try to make Harry ashamed of him by setting him these tasks. Yet on the other hand, he had been working with him for the past fifteen years, and had never given him away, nor had James betrayed Snape.

Harry read off another card. His stomach lurched. Yet another one headed _Potter, James, and Black, Sirius_. This time for some kind of explosion during Potions. _Two students hospitalised for minor injuries. Double detention with Professor Slughorn._ If he had been anything like the next Potions master, he thought, glancing up at Snape marking essays, that detention must have been hell.

Snape set aside a roll of parchment and caught his glance. 'Come across any interesting records?'

Harry picked another card out of the pile still to sort through and glared at it so hard he thought it would surely burst into flames.

But then something in the faded words triggered his attention, and he blinked, focusing on the details as his resentment dissipated. 'Yeah,' he replied, feeling smug in spite of himself. He held the tattered card aloft so Snape could have no doubts about its authenticity. 'This one's dead interesting.' He read from it. '_Use of illegal hex, resulting in temporary disfigurement of Dorian Cleaves. Detention for two weeks._' He brought his gaze to meet Snape's. '_Snape, Severus._'

As soon as Harry saw the deep, horrible scowl creep over his face, he knew he had gone too far. Snape's eyes gleamed in fury. He rose from his chair. 'So,' he said, stalking forward round his desk. 'So you think your father was better than me?'

'I – I didn't say—'

'He was quite content to murder me – even while a teenager! Is that _good_, Potter? Are you _proud_ of that?'

'He saved your life!'

'Your father was a coward! Don't mistake last-minute nerves for heroics.'

There was no point arguing. The Whomping Willow incident in Snape's fifth year at school, when Lupin had nearly killed him, always seemed to bring out the worst in him. And that was saying something, Harry thought ruefully.

But there was a niggle at the back of his mind pushing out everything else – something about what Snape was saying – or how he was saying it. 'Why are you talking about him in the past?' he asked, succeeding in putting his finger on it.

'What?' Snape's face was still set.

'You keep saying "was" when you talk about him – "he _was_".'

Snape looked more annoyed than angry now. 'I was merely referring to his time at school.'

Harry studied his irritation. Snape was offering nothing further. Maybe he was reading too far into it. But it was terrifying to think his dad might have changed so much.

There was a knock on the door and the next second it was open. 'Severus. Here you are.' McGonagall sounded relieved. She bustled in. 'I've just been talking with Professor Flitwick. He says you asked him to take your place on today's Hogsmeade trip.'

'As you can see,' Snape stated in even tones, 'I'm giving Potter detention.'

McGonagall furrowed her brows. 'We all agreed, Severus – including you. You don't get out of this so easily.' Harry could almost imagine her wagging a finger. 'You and I have been scheduled to supervise today. They're only children,' she soothed, peering over her square glasses at him, 'they won't bite.'

'Potter has Quidditch practice today,' Snape said with a sour glance at Harry.

McGonagall levelled a stern gaze at Snape and thinned her lips. 'You know very well it may not have anything to do with Potter,' she chastised. 'This is just an excuse.'

Harry looked between the two in puzzlement. _It?_ he thought. _What's this 'it' that's supposed to be about me?_ He thought over McGonagall's words and felt his confusion deepen. _…or not about me?_

'Fine,' spat a scowling Snape, folding his arms tightly.

'Good,' she pronounced, appearing pleased to have won the argument. 'I shall inform Professor Flitwick. Oh, and before it slips my mind, you can tell your student the answer to his question is no.'

Snape looked quizzically at her.

'The question on the form of an Animagus being based on the person's magical core,' she explained, 'and whether, hypothetically, someone else's use of such would enable adaptation to the user's personality. Very interesting question, actually. I found fields of research into Transfiguration I never knew existed.'

Snape did not appear particularly interested in these new fields of research. Instead he had adopted a curious closed expression.

'All hypothetical, of course,' she added. 'I can't imagine a likely situation in which that could occur, since the magical core—'

'Is that an unequivocal no, then?' Snape put in. At her affirmation, he muttered, 'There was no mention of that in the book.'

She gave him a questioning gaze.

'The book I confiscated from my student,' he explained.

'And what book was that?'

'_Discover the Animal Within_, I believe.' He shot an annoyed glance in Harry's direction as though irritated he was sitting in on their conversation.

Harry pretended to return his attention to the records.

'Ah, well, no wonder,' she said with a small snort of condescension. 'That's a "how to" guide only – it contains very little actual theory.' She frowned lightly. 'I suggest you strongly dissuade your student from looking into the subject of Animagi. Practice of it is banned at Hogwarts for a reason.'

'You needn't worry,' he declared. 'I've put an end to his foolish dabbling.' He sounded to be just as aggravated as McGonagall at his student's explorations.

Apparently satisfied with Snape's confident assurance, she turned to leave. Her eyes fell on Harry and the cobwebbed boxes of records on the table in front of him. 'What are you in detention for, Potter?'

He was about to answer when Snape interjected. 'I found him prowling the Castle after hours.'

'Dear, dear,' she rebuked.

Harry glanced at Snape. He was staying oddly silent as he gazed ahead. Why was he not mentioning the Forbidden Forest? Surely he would love to tell her the worst of it? It would be virtually guaranteed, as head of his House, she would award Harry further punishment. And Snape surely could not resist taunting her for lack of discipline? He usually enjoyed reminding her of any shortcomings where Gryffindor was concerned.

'I hope you've learned your lesson,' she said.

Harry gazed down at his hands in respectful humility. He had learned his lesson all right: He would never be able to see his dad with Snape around.

'I'll see you in the Entrance Hall, Severus,' she said as she left.

Snape turned to Harry and sneered. 'It appears it is your lucky day, Potter.'

Harry ignored the jeer. 'Why didn't you tell her about the Forest?' Was it to do with whatever Snape had been in there for? But McGonagall was a member of the Order; he had no reason to keep his and James's activities secret from her. Unless… 'She doesn't know about my dad.'

'As I've said before,' drawled Snape, regarding him with disdain, 'the fewer who know, the better.'

And that, Harry considered with regret, was also why Sirius still did not know. He ached to tell him. If it had just been Snape forbidding him, he wouldn't have paid much attention. But it was clear Lupin held the same view. Perhaps he thought Sirius might do something stupid and get himself caught – such as try to contact James on his own initiative. Maybe it was best this way. For now.

He got up to leave, feeling as much defeated as Snape looked sullen.

'Just in time for your precious Quidditch after all,' mocked Snape as Harry reached the door.

Gritting his teeth, Harry slammed it behind him as hard as he could. Well, he thought with malice, at least Snape would have fun this afternoon in Hogsmeade. Served him right.

Too late, he realised his angry smirk had not gone unnoticed. Someone had been talking down the corridor, and had now stopped. An unsettling interest was creeping into Draco's gaze. Harry turned his back to him and made for the steps. He was in no mood for a confrontation.

'What's the matter, Potter?' Malfoy strode forward so he blocked the stairway. He threw a look in the direction of Snape's office. 'Having problems?'

'Nothing I can't handle.' Harry tried to sidestep him.

'Yeah, course not. But what's it like?' Malfoy leaned forward as Harry tried to push past. 'Tell me, I'm really curious.'

'What are you on about?' His hand found his wand in his robes.

'Come on. Don't play innocent.' Malfoy's mouth eased into a malevolent grin as though trying it on for size. 'Tell me what it's like to know your own father – what's left of him anyway – can't stand the _sight_ of you.'

Harry felt his blood drain. Malfoy could not know… How – how could he?

No – wait. It might be from Lucius. He was a Death Eater. He would know James as a Death Eater.

But Draco was acting as though he should know. And he shouldn't. He wasn't supposed to know James was alive and a Death Eater! He broke out in a cold sweat. If Voldemort found out he knew… He would want to know how… This couldn't be happening! He forced his voice steady. Malfoy was just trying to trick him into telling him what he knew. 'Don't know what you're talking about. Shouldn't you be getting ready for the school trip with all the other little kiddies?'

But Malfoy was not taking the bait. 'The only person you're fooling's yourself. But I guess it can't be easy. Poor daddy, whatever's become of him? Oh, Merlin – it's written all over your face! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's made him _hate_ you.'

Harry grabbed him and slammed him against the wall. 'What do you know? Tell me! What do you _know_?'

'What's going on?' Snape was standing by the open door of his office in a travelling cloak as black as his robes. 'Potter!'

'Sir,' appealed Malfoy. 'He just attacked me for no reason.'

Snape glared at Harry. 'Explain yourself. And release Mr Malfoy at once.'

Harry thought fast. He needed to tell Snape what Malfoy had said. He needed to do it now. But he needed to do it away from Malfoy. And Snape was about to leave for Hogsmeade. He had to figure out a way to get Snape back in his office, and make it look good.

Something worthy of another detention.

Harry drew a breath and balled Malfoy's robes in his fists. He felt adrenalin surge through him. But he had no choice. He shoved Malfoy back, hard. Shock knocked the grin off his face. Harry kicked his shin. It was childish, but it was sure to get Snape's attention. A bonus was Malfoy's satisfying yell of pain.

'_Potter!_ In my office. Now!'

He didn't need telling twice.

'You deserve everything you get, Potter,' shot Malfoy, rubbing his leg.

Snape rounded on Harry as soon as he closed the door. 'So, again your juvenile—'

'He knows! Malfoy knows, and he knows I know – at least he _thinks_ I know—'

'Potter! I have no time for this,' Snape snarled. 'I shall give you a Babbling Beverage when I wish to have inane drivel spouted at me.'

'Look, I needed to tell you. Malfoy knows about my dad. He talked like I knew it too. And if that's true—'

Snape's glare had fallen away. 'Lucius,' he muttered, gazing at a point over Harry's shoulder.

'My dad's in trouble, isn't he?' Harry tried after a moment, afraid of the answer.

Snape turned a thoughtful look on him.

'He's gonna tell his dad, and then Voldemort, and then…' He felt lost, hemmed in by anxious thoughts.

Snape's black eyes regarded him, cold and unconcerned. 'What did Draco say exactly?'

'He said…' He looked down so Snape would not see him hiding Malfoy's more painful words. 'He talked about him as if I knew Dad's alive. And that he's a Death Eater.'

The silence was horrible. Even worse was Snape's deliberately blank expression. Finally Snape put him out of his misery. He seemed to reach a decision, and stated, 'The Dark Lord already knows.'

Harry stared in confusion. How could that be? And why now? Why did this all seem to be coming out now?

'Draco's father was told by the Dark Lord. And plainly Lucius told Draco.' Snape's eyes clouded over again for a second. Then he spoke as though reciting a class. 'Certain that Professor Dumbledore would trust him, he was told by the Dark Lord to offer his services as a spy. It was the Dark Lord's intention, however, that he spy on Dumbledore.'

'You mean … Voldemort told him to go to Dumbledore, to show he was alive?' He frowned in thought. 'But Dumbledore already knew he was, right? He was already spying on the Death Eaters for him.' It made _some_ kind of sense, timed as it also was with Voldemort's return this summer. 'Voldemort decided to use him.' Voldemort must have wanted James to plant misinformation in the Order, hoping Dumbledore would trust James more than Snape. '_That's_ why it's all come out now?'

'Because he decided to use him,' echoed Snape. 'Indeed.' There was a bitter edge to the word, tinged with something like regret. But when his gaze returned, so had his confidence. And his sneer of superiority. 'So you see, your extreme Occlusion practice is needless, as I've been trying to make you understand. The Dark Lord already believes you know all this, because his spy was always to have Dumbledore's trust.'

Harry's relief was under siege from an anger bubbling up inside as he recalled the difficult months. 'So why didn't you tell me this before?' he demanded.

Snape seemed irritated by the response. 'I beg your pardon?'

'You could have told me. You could have said he was a … a double agent.' Was Snape actually expecting thanks for having stood by while he had put himself through all that for nothing? 'Enjoyed seeing in me pain, did you?'

Snape's eyes widened as he seethed. 'How dare you suggest—'

'No one tells me _anything_!'

'I told you from the start it was unnecessary and dangerous to push your connection with the Dark Lord,' he snarled. 'I humoured you. I stopped the worst effects by creating a special potion. I even pointed out a relevant passage in an Occlumency book – if you recall.'

Harry stared angrily back. Why couldn't Snape have just told him the truth in the first place instead of going to all that bother? First Snape was helping him, then he was hindering him. Nothing Snape did ever made any sense! Harry's anger was crumbling beneath his tangled thoughts.

'Did you even look at the book?' asked Snape.

Harry tried to avoid his glare. Surely he wasn't going to test him on it now? Didn't he have to supervise the Hogsmeade trip anyway? 'Yeah, I looked at it.'

Snape's lip curled. 'Let me rephrase my question. Did you _read_ any of it?'

'It was all technical—'

'Of course it is technical!' he cut in. 'It's an Occlumency manual!'

'But it's way too advanced. I couldn't follow any of it.'

Snape's eyes rolled closed. He turned his head from side to side. 'And Dumbledore was so confident that a fifteen-year-old dunderhead would appreciate the finer aspects of the art,' he said, in an ugly parody of deepest disappointment.

'It's obviously not _meant_ for fifteen-year-olds.'

Snape's gaze was on him again. 'Precisely. Because Occlumency itself is not meant for fifteen-year-olds. Why do you think it is not taught as part of Defence Against the Dark Arts? Need I repeat it so many times, Potter, before it sinks into your thick head? I'll say it once more, then. You are not to practise so hard and so often. No one can say what it would mean for your link with the Dark Lord. What dangers it would bring. Nothing is more important!' He stopped, in angry thought, probably of any worse insults he could throw at him. But, 'I have to be elsewhere,' he said, with little enthusiasm. 'If Mr Malfoy says anything further…' There was a pause, and Harry saw his dark eyes turn to studying him.

Harry avoided them.

'Best not to pay him any attention, Potter,' said Snape smoothly. 'We don't want anything more getting out, do we? Do we, Potter?'

'No – no, we don't.'

'Let's give Mr Malfoy what he does not expect this time. Shall we?' The thin mouth twitched. But not in indication of a joke shared; he was daring Harry to respond to this return to before Easter and the words they'd had in the library.

For Harry, though, it brought a reaction – it brought back that peculiar, creeping feeling he'd had then when Snape had mistakenly mentioned the Malfoys in a less than flattering light. Harry was eager to leave. 'Right,' he said now. 'So, I guess I don't need any more of the potion you gave me?'

He was rewarded with a contemptuous glare.

'Right.' He turned to leave.

'Right, _sir_. And this is not an excuse to slack off on your Occlumency, Potter,' Snape called as he reached the door. 'Take it to safe levels, that is all. As with anything, moderation is the wisest course. I shall continue to test you, Potter – I do not want to find you have been remiss. It still retains its importance.'

Harry left him to it. Snape had the Hogsmeade trip anyway. Harry sighed. He had probably missed the start of Quidditch practice by now. Though he still found himself looking forward to the rest of the afternoon. He no longer needed to worry Voldemort might find out the truth about his dad through their link. And if Malfoy taunted him again – well, at least _he_ knew whose side his dad was really on; that was the most important thing.

But Snape – why hadn't Snape simply told him straight away that Voldemort already expected him to know his dad was alive? He had to admit Snape _had_ tried to dissuade him from his round-the-clock attempts to keep Voldemort from his thoughts. And he _had_ given him the potion stopping the side-effects of all that effort – so it did seem it _wasn't_ because he had wanted to see him hurting through it…

He shook his head. Just what game was Snape playing anyway?


	13. A Five-Letter Word

_**13. A five-letter word**_

Snape's meander down the street just happened to be bringing him closer to the nearest pub. He paused on seeing the sign of The Hog's Head hanging motionless in the unseasonably hot spring day. It would not do to be spotted patronising a notorious establishment while he was on school duty. _Though Merlin knows I need a drink right now_, he thought as a troupe of over-excited Hufflepuff third-years hurtled past. Sending them a filthy look, he made do instead with mentally tallying the points to be deducted on his return to the Castle. Funny how the sun brought out all the most insufferable children. Still, quite a few points from Gryffindor so far, he reminded himself with a satisfied smirk.

'Where are you off to?' came Minerva's sharp voice from somewhere to his side. As she approached, he realised he had been gravitating toward the pub again.

'What?' He stopped and gazed down the street as though wondering how he had come to be there. 'I thought I saw a student down that way. One of the troublemakers from Gryffindor.'

She threw him a sceptical look. 'Hmm. I think the _Slytherin_ troublemakers are up by Honeydukes.'

'Slytherin troublemakers?' He raised an eyebrow. 'Wouldn't you say that's something of an oxymoron?'

Her eyes glistened behind her glasses. She muttered, 'I can think of one or two who would fit the last part, perhaps.' She sniffed. 'Such a beautiful day for it,' she exclaimed, taking in the surroundings.

He grimaced at the blue skies. She knew he despised small talk. Maybe she was trying to get rid of him so she could sneak a sly drink herself. 'Well, I'd better check on the _oxy_-morons,' he declared, letting her know with his careful emphasis he had caught her meaning. He left her to her own nefarious devices and headed in the other direction. At least The Three Broomsticks did not wait for a solstice before cleaning its serving glasses.

He swept down the High Street, travelling cloak billowing as he went. Various passers-by in light summer robes, taking advantage of the mild May weather, looked him up and down, eyeing his heavy dark robes. Normally, he would attempt to pointedly ignore such unwanted attention, but the afternoon's pleasant climate was putting him in a somewhat frivolous, more confrontational mood. Hence, all stares were met with a display of less-perfect teeth set in a forthright smile. He snorted at those who scurried away in fright, snobbish expressions replaced with flushes of embarrassment.

Dismissing them from his mind, he returned to Minerva's words. Troublemaking Slytherins? He could think of only one right now. Lucius's son.

He was confident Draco would not repeat in front of Potter what he had undoubtedly learned from Lucius – at least not bring Snape more overtly into it.

Deciding he'd had to find the boy as soon as possible, he had risked being a little late for Hogsmeade and had gone in search of him.

'We don't want Potter to involve the Headmaster in this,' he had told Draco after finding him in the common room and wrenching him away from his entourage of Crabbe and Goyle junior. 'My position here at Hogwarts may be compromised if Dumbledore discovers our taunting of Potter.'

'So why do _I_ have to stop but you don't?' the boy whined.

Snape observed the blond Slytherin who was used to having his own way and who took it for granted he would receive the best treatment. It came from being an only child in a privileged household, Snape decided with a small amount of bitterness. While he had experienced the former, he had not been so fortunate on the latter. 'Because Potter maintains foolish hopes,' he explained. 'And he does not wish to jeopardise them. But to Potter it is not _your_ opinion that matters.' He watched Draco's eyebrows creep up in understanding.

'So what you're saying is Potter's _letting_ you get away with it? He's cosying up to you because he wants you to like him?'

Snape curled his lips in reply. 'If you mention me in any way, and Dumbledore's golden boy goes crying to him, I will have no choice but to inform my master _why_ I am no longer in the Headmaster's confidence.'

'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wouldn't be very happy about that,' muttered Draco, the boy's pallid demeanour betraying his worried thoughts.

'To say the least,' agreed Snape, gratified to see Draco working through the implications. 'It is not among the Dark Lord's plans I be kept uninformed of the schemes of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix.'

'I didn't think … I'm sorry, sir.' Draco cast his worry to the floor.

'I suggest you think more carefully before you speak in front of Potter in future, Draco.'

And so he had left for Hogsmeade, confident Draco's fear of endangering Lucius's position in the Dark Lord's circle would override any desire to indulge in some Potter-baiting. He expected Draco had already needled him on the matter. In his office Potter had been careful to avoid his eyes. But he had little sympathy for him. Not after the surprise in the Forest. He felt more regret for Draco: It was inevitable the boy would succumb to the foisting of his father's and aunt's beliefs on his impressionable mind and take the Dark Mark for himself.

But like a costly mistake, Potter refused to leave his thoughts.

How close it had been, in the Forest. It did not bear thinking of. And what had the boy been doing there, in the middle of the night? He had been following him, he knew it. Meddling again. Some things never changed.

Little had, anyway. Only the boy's Occlumency appeared to have improved – all because of the potion he had given him. It had to have been done. It had been either make the potion or give him the truth. Because Potter would not be quite so quick to push the pain of his Occlumency if he knew where his father really was.

He had hardly believed it in the library when the boy had asked whether he had taught his father. James Potter had been deficient in every attribute necessary for a skilled Occlumens. The exhibitionist Potter that he had known would have been like a lamb to the slaughter at Death Eater gatherings, never mind in the presence of the Dark Lord himself. He had strutted through life instead like a – well, like a stag.

Snape paused at his reflection in a shop window. How annoying it was – all those hours in the Forest over the past several weeks trying to Transfigure into something practical – when in fact he would never be able to get beyond that primitive stage, never be able to achieve better than that pitiful stag. What a supreme waste of his time. Pity – he could have found some use for the conceited James Potter after all. But even when Snape had gone to the trouble, had offered the man the benefit of his doubt, given him the chance to redeem himself, Potter insisted on remaining inept to the end, steadfast in his true love for the superficial, the shallow, the ostentatious.

He watched his face harden in the glass.

But the Potter boy had nearly ruined everything. If Potter had… But no. He was certain he had not seen anything. Yet, just before he had caught him, he had heard him call out…

A tinkle of laughter at his back disturbed his train of thought, making him refocus – onto crashes of lace in a multihued sea of witches' dresses.

He whirled round to glare at the swiftly retreating girls. It was difficult to tell which House they were in. Plainly, then, another twenty points from every one except Slytherin.

He peered back up the street. Minerva appeared to be lecturing a group of Gryffindors by Zonko's Joke Shop. Across the way, he recognised an Auror, no doubt assigned here on the information he had provided the Order with weeks earlier.

The last Hogsmeade weekend before the exams: if they were going to strike at all, it would be today. But he had heard similar gossip before among the Death Eaters that had come to nothing. All empty threats voiced over one too many Firewhiskies. And, more significantly, the saviour of the wizarding world was not here for them to attack.

The Potter boy. So like his father. Lacking in subtlety, like him; a dependable troublemaker, like him; the centre of attention… Yet, Potter's little speech after Potions the other month niggled. The unease would not be shaken, and it was reducing his leverage in classes when further observations were called for, as well as in the Occlumency lessons when it was necessary to bring out another distasteful Dursley – imperceptibly, but almost unbearably. He would regain it, certainly. But it was taking much too long for his liking.

Through the crowds milling around in the sunshine, he exchanged an accusatory look with the Auror across the road. The man, no older than twenty, eyed him with all the distrust Snape had come to expect from an associate of Mad-Eye Moody. _Though you're here because of information from me_, he thought. He inspected his watch. Still another hour to kill before herding the students back to Hogwarts. The warmth was irritating. But so was the spectacle of voracious consumerism that was incomprehensibly dredged out of people on hot, sunny days. He brushed aside the group of middle-aged witches who had surrounded the robe shop. 'Out of my way!' he barked at the women cooing at the display. He headed down the High Street, temper flaring in the heat of the bustle, and took some pleasure from bursting other examples of complacency.

At first, Snape thought it was the discovery of a bargain that was spreading through the throng like wildfire as the sun beat down. After a moment, he paid more attention to the movement of the rushing crowds when he realised it was not the whooping of joy reaching his ears, but the sounds of terror.

Several groups were peeling away, and hurtling in conflicting directions. He followed their lines of sight as they made for the safety of shop doorways. There was the Auror from earlier, crouched beside a signboard on the pavement, his wand pointing down the road.

Snape scanned the panicking mass for students as he stood fast against the surge. 'Stebbins!' He plucked out the terrified boy.

'_No!_ Not me – please – I'm only … Professor Snape!' he cried, eyes wide with relief. 'I thought you were a —'

'Get over here.' He pulled Stebbins into a vacated sweet shop, thanking Merlin he had, as the first curse sent their way caught a nearby elderly wizard who had been too slow.

'Stay back,' he ordered the boy, pointing to the counter, and positioned himself beside the window. His fears were confirmed. He watched the Auror move from doorway to doorway down the street, doing remarkably well in dodging each hex and curse that careered his way, and clearly targeting the culprit … or culprits.

He ignored the fidgeting boy behind, keeping his eyes on the scene outside, until finally he found it. Partially hidden by a large sign proclaiming two-for-one ice creams was at least one of the sources of the attack. Although the man was behind a mask, Snape had spent enough time with his … associates … to be able to distinguish each from their mannerisms and stature. He peered in the opposite direction, wondering anxiously where Minerva was.

'Sir?'

'Silence!' he growled. Hopefully, the rest of the school party were employing common sense and had sought out Minerva, or were at least sheltering somewhere safe.

But he stared in disbelief when he spied a lone figure cutting through the hysterical crowd still pouring down the street. As it approached, it became plain it was a man, not, as he had feared, one of the students. The wizard was getting closer, a wand in one hand and a hungry eagerness across his face. Close enough to be recognised.

'Black!'

Behind there was the shatter of glass on stone.

Snape scowled at Stebbins' surprised guilt. A cherry-red sweet rolled across the concrete floor toward Snape's boot. 'This is not an excuse for looting, Stebbins.'

Snapping his gaze back to the window, Snape stared at Black's outright foolish behaviour as the man, in full view, shot curses down the street. He would not remain a spectator to this. At least Black's presence suggested the Order had learned of the attack.

Stebbins was stammering a repairing spell. Without bothering to look, Snape pointed as he grabbed the door. 'Stay here and stay down.'

-x-

'We are so gonna slaughter them.'

'Complacency's not what we want, Ron,' announced Angelina as she entered the changing room. 'The Final's only a few weeks away. We need to work damn hard if we want a shot at the Cup, people!'

Harry had thought their training session had gone pretty well. But Angelina was turning out to be a tougher taskmaster than Oliver Wood.

'And I want _everyone_ to turn up _on time_ for the next session.' She glared at Harry.

He was about to explain he had been held back by Snape's detention, when he felt a rush of anger. He wanted to wipe that superior look off her face. What right did she have to tell him what to do?

'And Ron – you need to play more to your strengths. Less mucking about.'

Ron looked mildly insulted. But Harry was incensed. He could not contain the rage any longer. 'Just what do you know anyway? You're just a STUPID GIRL who ought to stick to Charms!'

The room had gone quiet; Angelina's and Ron's faces swam into focus, wide-eyed and gaping at him.

Harry's cheeks were burning. 'I – I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I don't know what came over me.'

'You need to learn respect for leadership, Potter,' she snarled, and turned on her heel back to the Captain's office.

'Blimey,' whispered Ron, as Harry avoided the barrage of glances, 'what the hell happened there?'

'I just… I dunno.' She had not deserved that; there had been nothing unjust in her words. Perhaps it was the stress of everything this year, the heavy OWL workload, the frustration of not being able to see his dad. It was not the first time he had lost control lately: he would not easily forget the outburst in front of Snape a few months back. But this had been something else. He had never felt such sudden anger. There was no excuse for what he had said to Angelina, especially after all the work she had put in this year for the team. 'I'm apologising properly,' he told Ron, and sprang to his feet.

-x-

It was extraordinary, Snape mused, how a dog could be taught to stay when told, yet not, it seemed, the mutt Black.

'Get off me, Snape.'

'What are you doing here?' He let go of Black's arm where he had pulled him into an empty doorway. 'Where's Minerva?'

'McGonagall? She's up there somewhere.' He motioned up the street. 'She sent me a message at Order headquarters when the raid went off.'

'You oaf,' spat Snape. 'You were supposed to inform the rest of the Order, not turn up yourself and place your position even further in jeopardy.'

'What do you take me for – of course I told them! I've seen Tonks around somewhere, and Mad-Eye said he'd bring along a bunch of Aurors – and I think Remus is here too.' His eyes were alive, and Snape angrily tried to follow them as they flitted about for the best action; he was plainly enraptured after several months' confinement in his mother's old house.

'I must not be seen with you if your presence here has already been noticed.'

Black looked at him curiously. 'Maybe I should hex you, then – in case we've been spotted already. It would be my pleasure.' He leered and raised his wand.

Snape wondered how the mutt could find amusement at a time such as this. 'Just you try,' he whispered, tightening his grip on his own wand in response.

Black's grin broadened. 'I could put—' His face opened in surprise.

'Put what?'

But Black only slumped forward in reply. Snape snagged an arm as he fell.

The stationary figure came into view.

There, just a few yards away, despite her mask and standard Death Eater robes, stood the unmistakable bony form of Black's cousin, her wand trained in their direction. And now pointing at Snape.

He hastily let Black's arm drop to the ground and straightened.

A battery of spells shot by the witch. She tarried two that fell close and danced with the crossfire out of sight.

He sank to a knee and rolled Black over, sliding him into the shelter of the doorway. 'Black!'

The mutt only groaned. A sweep of Snape's wand told him Black was in no condition to be Side-Along-Apparated to help. He would have to find the counter-spell himself to whatever Bellatrix had done. But there were no obvious signs. 'What did she use?' he urged in his ear. 'Did you hear it? What does it feel like?'

Black's breathing was harsh and heavy. He was deteriorating rapidly.

Snape yelled his name, and shook his shoulders. The fool was about to slip into unconsciousness. 'Black!' There was no choice now but to risk Apparition to St Mungo's. He hauled him up, using the door as a prop. 'Get up, you idiot.'

Breath hitched. The eyes that met him were startling in their distance.

But Snape thought he saw a hint of recognition. Hopefully this meant Black grasped the urgency of the situation. He was about to demand he tell him the spell, when the dry lips parted.

If he had not already been two short inches from the man's slack face, Snape might have thought he had misheard. As it was, the word Black murmured was too clear to be mistaken.

'James?'

Caught in the unblinking gaze, blood icy water beneath his skin.

'What … you doing … here…' Black breathed, the final word a sigh borne away by a passing breeze.

Snape could not say how much time slipped by before he snatched himself back from the glassy grey stare, and realised the man was no longer breathing.

The only thing he could recollect with any certainty was the cold, rough stone of the dark alley against his palms and temple, and the sound of urgent panting.

He barely felt the Dark Mark when it came. His throat burned stronger with drowning gasps. On and on it dragged at the treacherous air that had carried to his ears one word, with five fatal letters.


	14. It was Him!

**_14. It was him!_**

He closed his eyes and focused on the burning on his arm, trying to forget the burning in his head, his throat, his lungs, his stomach. The air he squeezed through was dark and hot as he Disapparated to the Dark Lord's summons.

He was still weightless when he arrived. He wandered around the dream. Or was it a nightmare? The Dark Lord laid his anger at everyone's feet but his own. His mission had failed. Snape watched the wave of fear with a degree of passivity that he had never before managed to achieve.

Then he sensed the accusations turn in his direction. His head was being searched. Perhaps for signs of Dumbledore being warned in advance of the Dark Lord's operation at the Ministry that Snape had been ignorant of, had been absent from, in Hogsmeade at the time, hundreds of miles from the Dark Lord's side. But it was uncommonly easy to keep his mind empty while the Dark Lord's rage groped around inside him seeking release.

Information ran from the Dark Lord's twisted mouth to comfort his wounded ego. Snape absorbed it, preserving it to take back to Dumbledore, as once he would have done for the Dark Lord. All was crucial to success, though now success meant something very different. But the world then had been very different.

Significant absences were noted. Had Lucius finally been caught out?

When the Dark Lord's anger had been vented, Bellatrix cornered Snape as he took his leave. Her face was at once triumphant and layered with suspicion. What had he been doing with her cousin Sirius, she wanted to know.

He almost believed the well-rehearsed lies he offered up to her. Perhaps one day he would wake and think himself a true traitor to Dumbledore's cause. But perhaps that was as likely as waking to believe himself James Potter. Or Severus Snape.

Bellatrix continued her demands, refusing to let him leave. What more did she want of him?

'He drew his wand on you.' She spat the words out like an accusation.

'He was always paranoid. Never trusted me. I wonder why?' A raised eyebrow. A small, sardonic curl of the lip. Mechanical movements designed to conceal the truth within. And where did the real truth lay? Deeper still. But not deep enough. Not deep enough to hide from Black.

But then he realised when he registered the flicker of slight in her keen eyes: She wanted what she always demanded of everyone around her, of course. She wanted recognition. She wanted him to thank her for 'rescuing' him from Black.

'But I do appreciate you finishing him off, and saving me the bother. It might have been difficult to explain away to Dumbledore if I'd had to do it myself.'

She moved aside with beady-eyed suspicion as he left, depositing with her a small incline of the head as a show of his gratitude. _Thank you for allowing Black to speak that hated word. Thank you so much, Bellatrix._

He found himself back at Hogwarts, the bustling Entrance Hall alive with news of the simultaneous attacks. Some students voiced concern for families who may or may not have been at Hogsmeade, some for parents employed at the Ministry. Snape ignored the hushed looks cast his way as he drifted through, intent on climbing the marble stairs.

'Sir.'

A girl held the boy back by his sleeve in worry. He shrugged her insistent hand away and confronted Snape at the foot of the steps.

'Sir. In the shop … I couldn't fix it. Professor McGonagall came before I could. It was in a million bits. I didn't have time.'

Snape looked with curiosity at the concern etched on Stebbins' face.

'I … I'll pay for any damage, sir.'

The girl was gesturing behind him now – Fawcett, was it? Stebbins sent her a series of swift glances to warn her off. Snape wondered at the boy's bravery in reminding him, inviting detention. Perhaps the shopkeeper had been injured, killed, and the boy had somehow discovered this? In his head, he heard again the smash of the sweet jar on the floor, caused by Black's sudden appearance. Could the fragments have been repaired given time?

'Never mind, Stebbins. What's done is done.'

He turned from the boy's surprised relief and proceeded up the stairs. He was already at the entrance to the Headmaster's office when he regretted the casual remark. How dare the boy dream of asking him for absolution for such a petty crime? The gargoyle stared silently back as he opened his mouth to snarl the password, when the door opened and Mad-Eye Moody emerged.

'Snape.' Moody's acknowledgement was far from welcoming. He clumped down into the corridor under the torchlight. 'Thought you'd be with him, licking your wounds.'

Snape felt no desire to defend himself against the gruff accusations.

'I saw you, Snape.' The blue eye swivelled in its socket, taking him in.

'I'm pleased to hear your ocular functions are in full working order.' Snape glanced at the magical eye.

'I saw you with Sirius.'

His gaze snapped to Moody's normal eye. He forced down the rush of panic.

'I saw you with him. I fought the wee bitch away.'

So those had been his spells?

'And then after I was done with another of your lot, I looked back and you'd gone – left Sirius all alone, just lying there. Funny that, eh?'

Snape failed to see what was supposed to be amusing about it. 'I have to see Dumbledore.' He made toward the spiralling staircase.

'Perfect opportunity.'

Snape paused at the open door and turned. 'Pardon?'

'You heard me. You ought to watch your step, laddie, because one of these days you're going to mess up. And I'll be there. Waiting.'

It was funny how much the mad Auror seemed to enjoy his own paranoia. He nurtured its consistency like a Hungarian Horntail guarding its first egg. 'I'm afraid I have no idea what you are talking about.'

Moody sensed he was losing him, and shortened the distance with a clunk. 'Finished him off, didn't you?' There was a menace in Moody's normal eye which nearly matched that in the electric-blue one; it seemed to pulse with hostile magic as it stared back. 'Finished Sirius off then made a run for it.'

Snape's chest tightened and the blood went to his head at the injustice – accused of killing the man who had once tried to kill him! – coupled with the reminder of Black's final words. 'I did nothing of the kind. You can check my wand—'

Moody's laugh was a scratchy growl. 'Don't bother. You've had a couple of hours to get it _adjusted_.'

There was something about the way he had emphasised that last word, had spat it out in mockery. Snape narrowed his eyes as he tried to fathom his meaning. But apparently Moody was all too eager to explain.

'That's right.' Moody seemed pleased he had got a reaction. 'Someone saw you a few weeks ago in Ollivander's asking about _adjustments_.'

Now Snape understood. He had stopped by the wandmaker's in Diagon Alley the other weekend. He had wondered whether the change of magical core more than fourteen years ago might have dampened the effects of his magic. He had asked about fine-tuning his wand. It was quite feasible, of course, that over those years his core and wand had normalised naturally. But under the pretence of citing possible wand damage, it would not have hurt to ask. That was what he had thought at the time, at least. But of course he could tell Moody nothing of this. 'I have no desire to defend myself to you. I'm sure you've already discussed this with Dumbledore.' He had, after all, just come from the Headmaster's office.

The responding glare said everything: No doubt Dumbledore had given one of his little speeches on how much trust he placed in him. Snape allowed his mouth to quirk in a semblance of victory, and returned to the staircase – only to be forced back when Lupin stepped down.

The first thing Snape noticed was his dazed appearance. Then it occurred to him that he must have just learned of Black's death. Snape checked himself from sneering, but he need not have bothered: Lupin had apparently not noticed him stood to the side.

'Mad-Eye.' Under the torchlight Lupin was pale and sickly.

'You all right?' asked Moody.

'Yes. I just … I think I just need some fresh air.'

'Why don't you go to St Mungo's? I'll come with you. See how Minerva is. Though she'll probably be out in a week or so.'

_Unlike whom?_ wondered Snape.

'That's good.' Lupin seemed distant.

'Well, come on.'

'Oh. No – they wouldn't want me in the way. She wouldn't know I was there anyway.'

'Nonsense. It'll do you good. Stop you imagining the worst. It's not like any of her family will be there for her, is it?'

Of course. Snape had heard one of the Death Eaters gloating about Cursing Bellatrix's Auror cousin Nymphadora at Hogsmeade. So her injuries must be serious then. Naturally there were no expectations of her only living relative who was not a fugitive, Narcissa, rushing to her bedside.

'No, no.' Lupin was shaking his head, plainly trying to convince himself. 'I need some air. I'll just have a short walk round the school grounds.' His glance was brief and surprisingly accurate. 'Severus,' he said levelly, and turned down the corridor.

Snape found himself watching his receding back with a small amount of bewilderment. He had just left the Headmaster's office. Most likely he had been present for Moody's accusation. But wasn't he simply in a daze because of Black's death and Nymphadora's hospitalisation?

'I know your secret.'

Snape turned to Moody with a start. Though he was well aware Moody knew his past – the entire Order knew, of course – on being caught off guard, his hand still had a habit of rising convulsively toward his left forearm. He checked it now before it reached the Dark Mark, and forced it back down.

Moody sneered at this. 'Not your dirty secret. I mean the one I warned Dumbledore not to tell you about.'

A nasty jolt shot through Snape. So he knew. And he had known even before him. But it was all too clear now. The Auror must have jumped at the chance to interrogate for himself the freshly captured fugitive Death Eater Flintoff. Why hadn't he thought of this before?

'I didn't want you bragging about it to your chums.' He looked Snape up and down, magical eye fastened on his face, which had likely betrayed some hint of shock in spite of his efforts.

'Think you've got one over on us, eh? And now Sirius… Well, I'll tell you, Snape, Dumbledore might trust you, but _I_ don't.' His magical eye swivelled in its socket to underline the point. 'I suppose you think you've convinced him you've got yourself a new conscience and the past doesn't matter any more.' The blue eye travelled over him again. 'But me – I say some people _never_ change. With or without a _new core_.' The eye returned to his face and fixed itself there.

Snape fought to keep his distracted thoughts firmly to the back of his mind. But he felt the colour creeping over him as he stared defiantly back. It seemed to satisfy Moody: He sneered one last time, before turning on his heel, false leg clumping on the wooden floor.

Snape watched him leave, then made his way up the winding stairs to the Headmaster's office. He hammered on the door and threw it open. Dumbledore turned from a portrait whose startled gaze swiftly morphed into the deep frown of a former headmaster.

'How did he take it?' asked Dumbledore before Snape had even closed the door. There was no doubt to whom he was referring.

'Angrily.' Snape stepped inside. 'It was … not a pleasant sight.'

'I expect he tried to blame everyone but himself?'

Snape smiled wryly. 'You know him well.'

'Ah, yes. Too well.' He said it with sadness, and grew thoughtful.

'He wasn't after the boy,' said Snape. 'It was the prophecy he wanted.'

'Yes.' Dumbledore offered nothing more.

'He should have tried to use Potter to get it.'

'Really?' He peered over his spectacles. 'I hope you didn't tell him that.'

'I think he was angry enough.'

'Well, Harry can resist the Imperius Curse.'

'Indeed?' Snape looked around and saw Fawkes' perch was empty. 'The Hogsmeade attack was a diversion.'

'Yes, I know.' He sighed, and Snape waited.

'You know I did not?'

There was a pause. 'Why would I doubt that?'

'I knew nothing of his plans.'

'Of course. Because you weren't involved in them. It's not entirely unexpected.'

'Still…' He stopped, unsure what he had meant to say. Really, he should feel fortunate for having been kept in the dark. Otherwise he might have been accused of informing Dumbledore, and blamed for the Ministry fiasco. As it was, the Dark Lord was too stupid to see that some of the very Aurors he'd intended to be diverted from the Ministry had already been assigned to keep an eye on the village.

'Sit,' said Dumbledore. 'Before you drop. You look like you haven't had the chance all day.'

Snape turned to the chair as though it were a foreign object. But when he settled into its embrace he was grateful for it.

'At least,' said Dumbledore, turning to pace the floor, 'the Ministry cannot now deny Lord Voldemort's return.'

It was hard not to agree. Appearing in the Department of Mysteries to obtain a prophecy about oneself did leave rather little room for doubt in that respect. 'But he did not succeed in hearing all of it.' It was a statement rather than a question: The Dark Lord had made the failure abundantly clear, to the terrified scraping of the assembly.

'Fortunately, with your advance warnings, there were enough Aurors still in place at the Department. Even more fortunately, I also happened to be at the Ministry at the time.'

_No doubt_, thought Snape, _still trying to persuade them of the Dark Lord's return_. Just what one needs to help one's cause is the very appearance of the fact one is trying to prove. _Auspicious indeed._

'I was forced to destroy it before he could learn the rest.'

Dumbledore's words invoked in Snape an image of the stained pine door at the Hog's Head: scratchy wood against his face as he pressed an ear to one of its spidery knots; straining to filter out the noises of the pub downstairs so that he could better hear Trelawney droning her intriguing proclamation; his heart applauding it as its importance became clear – the Dark Lord would be pleased – now he did not have to dread reporting another failure to join Dumbledore's employ. His excitement built as she droned on, and he had not heard the bartender's footsteps until it was too late.

Even now, Dumbledore would not tell him the rest of it.

'I saw Moody just now.'

'Is Alastor still here?' Dumbledore was by Fawkes' stand, removing a gnawed end of cuttlefish and replacing it with a fresh piece.

'He left … but not without a few words for me first. I'm sure you can guess.'

If Dumbledore did, he was not saying.

'Not that I particularly care about his opinion of me, but you have explained?'

'Explained?' Having finished replenishing Fawkes' seed tray, Dumbledore patted the empty perch.

'About my ignorance of the Dark Lord's plot.'

'Ah, that.' He came back over to his chair. Once seated, he held Snape's gaze for a moment. 'Alastor hasn't been voicing his doubts on the information you gave us.'

'Oh?' The Auror did not doubt him on that? This was news surely worthy of the front page of the _Prophet_.

'Alastor was at Hogsmeade. He told me he successfully fought off Bellatrix Lestrange. But not before she had injured Sirius.'

'I tried to ascertain the spell she'd used,' said Snape after Dumbledore had relayed Moody's assertion that he had seen him with Black. 'But there was nothing to be done.'

'Alastor was prevented from coming to your aid by another Death Eater. After dealing with him, he went in search of you, and found Sirius's body where he had fallen.'

Snape debated telling him about his and Moody's confrontation a few moments ago. 'So the madman thinks I finished him off,' he said instead, and regretted it when Dumbledore gave him a reproachful look.

'There is something else.'

'Indeed?' Snape tried to make it sound casual; as though there could be nothing surprising in whatever new conspiracies Moody accused him of.

'You were seen in Ollivander's a few weeks ago enquiring about adjustments.'

'Moody has already told me his suspicions. He was quite vocal about them, just now in the corridor.'

'I see. And what did you tell him?'

'I told him nothing. As I said, I don't care about his opinion of me.'

'And do you feel the same about mine, Severus?'

Snape was determined not to bite. If Dumbledore wanted to know the truth, he could ask like anyone else. He certainly seemed to be accusing him like everyone else. 'At least I did learn something interesting from Moody's ramblings,' Snape said. 'It appears he was one of those who had advised you not to tell me about Flintoff's revelation.' There was surprisingly little reaction from Dumbledore. 'I didn't know he knew – indeed, he'd known before me.' Of course, Snape realised then, Dumbledore had probably already guessed this was linked to his visit to the wandmaker and had offered it to Moody as a possible explanation.

'I don't think it matters. Alastor promised me he would not tell a soul.'

Snape made no comment on Dumbledore's choice of words. 'He enjoyed throwing it in my face. Watching me dance.'

'I don't think he did.'

'I don't think you appreciate what it's like to be on the receiving end of one of Moody's accusations.'

'Not all of them are unfounded.'

The remark was uncalled for. Not after what he had endured today. It burned more strongly than the Mark on his arm had done hours earlier.

Dumbledore took pity on his fight to find appropriate release for his anger. He sighed. 'Severus, I expect you visited Ollivander's seeking adjustments because of your magical core. Am I right?' He waited for Snape's terse nod. 'Very well. I believe it's understandable. So now we come to Sirius.' He paused and held his gaze. 'You said there was nothing to be done. Is that why you left?'

It would have been easy to say yes and be done with it. But Snape hesitated, and it was just long enough for the doubt to creep into Dumbledore's eyes.

'You were seen running from him.'

Running? Had he been so eager to get away? 'The Dark Lord was summoning us.' He watched Dumbledore wonder why in that case he had not simply Disapparated on the spot.

'Dumbledore – if you doubt—'

'Severus, it is not a question of doubt. I simply wish to establish the facts. Not just to reassure Alastor – although that in itself would bring welcome peace.'

'Very well. I suppose as he knows everything else about me, he may as well know this too.'

On Dumbledore's face, lines were being drawn: The Headmaster had not been expecting a revelation. For Snape they marked the point of no return.

'It was when Black died. As he died. You see, he called me…' He looked to Dumbledore, but he offered no help. 'He saw me. That is, he saw…'

Now something was dawning. Snape saw it inch its way through Dumbledore's thoughts like a snake.

'It was him! He made Black say it. So that he could … torture me.'

The blue eyes looked calmly back. 'Who?'

'Him. Potter.'

'Harry?'

'Not the boy!' Snape seized the arms of his chair and tried to stare sense into the old man. 'The boy's father!'

But Dumbledore's mind continued to work. 'Are you saying you were with Sirius when he died? He spoke to you?'

'Not to me.'

'To James?'

Though he had wanted the inquisition to end, it was no less of a shock. There was that same jolt in his chest, the same grip stealing his breath, and he recognised it now as fear. The terror of no escape. 'How … how could it be?'

Dumbledore pondered as Snape fought his own battle. 'Perhaps – perhaps one soul passing can recognise another.' He turned to studying him with some interest, like one does a dying animal. 'Are you certain?'

'Do you think if there was the slightest chance of it having been any other word…?'

'Of course.'

It was not so much the remark that hit him like a Bludger, but the calmness of its delivery, its confidence, its simplicity. The fear was infecting every part of him now. 'Dumbledore. What does it mean?'

'Perhaps Alastor does not need to know every detail. No, I think he'll take my word on faith.'

'Dumbledore.' Black's final breath, the astonishment in his question _What are you doing here?_ – no his demand, it had to have been a demand – made Snape now wonder the same. Whose life, exactly, was he living? The last words of the dying man had been like a pronouncement on him. They had been saying, what right did he have to keep the man shackled to earth? But Potter was not a man, he was a parasite, and how strongly he wanted to cast out his tormentor. Would he then resemble someone who had received the Dementor's Kiss – a soulless mere shadow of a human? In all likelihood. But to exist in the bliss of unawareness seemed preferable to continuing to live a life that did not seem to belong to him at all, a life that had been a present from the man he hated even more than James Potter.

'I don't want to lose myself.' He spoke to his hand, white on the black cloth of his robes. The definable borders he presented to the world were unfamiliar to him. He was adrift somewhere beyond them.

'I don't believe that will ever be likely, Severus. You have such a … strong personality.' There was a smile in the words. 'Why would you change now? It's been fourteen years —'

Snape looked up. 'Fifteen.'

'Ah yes.'

'And is my path still clear, Dumbledore? Dare to say it.'

Dumbledore's face shifted; the Headmaster was preparing a rebuke. 'Voldemort could not lose you, Severus,' he said. More gently, 'Not then.'

'It is punishment, isn't it? For…'

'Oh, I think you were punished for that.'

'But how could Black know? How was it possible? Could anyone else – Moody? If he didn't know already, could he see too?'

'His soul was casting off the burdens of this life,' said Dumbledore, shaking his head. 'I would imagine it's not so very different from meeting one's love for the first time. Sometimes a thing can only be seen when it and it alone is seen.'

The convoluted theorising offered little, other than to stop his thoughts. Snape sat back and turned his mind to the day's other events. 'I take it Lucius was among those captured at the Ministry?' he asked after a moment.

'Yes, he was. But I've just discovered he has been released on bail.'

Bail? _More like bribery_, thought Snape, and he could not resist a sardonic smile. The trivialities of others could always be relied upon to relieve the load that was peculiar to oneself.

'Minerva will be in St Mungo's for the next few weeks,' said Dumbledore with a sigh. 'Thankfully, her injuries are not severe, though I wish I could say the same for others.'

There was no need to discuss death tolls and casualties. He had heard the boastful recitals being bandied against one another as soon as he had Apparated among the battle-charged Death Eaters.

'Perhaps it is some relief that Sirius at least died with a friend.'

'What?' But even in the face of Snape's shock, Dumbledore refused to give up his thoughtful look. 'Don't mention him,' Snape demanded, feeling the blood pump faster. 'Don't talk about Potter to me!'

'It's intriguing you still bear him such ill will after all this time.'

'Small wonder, when he has taken everything from me again.'

'Has he? Has he really?'

'I shall not be defined by him!'

'Identity.' Dumbledore grew ponderous again. 'Identity is a curious thing, isn't it?'

Snape said nothing. At least he had moved on from talk of Potter.

'It is not our blood or our genes, or our magical cores,' said Dumbledore, gazing now into the distance. 'Oh, it is in those things, but do they make us everything we are? What of our actions, our connections, our loves?'

Snape found Dumbledore looking at him as though waiting for an answer. He jerked his head away, and his breaths tried to follow from his tightening chest. 'All I know is,' he said, seeking to fill the silence, 'the more I return to the past, the less I recognise.' His eyes were on a sleeping headmistress; she lolled in her hand, her silver hair falling across her face. 'Do I know myself from fifteen years ago? So many things changed that night. How can I distinguish between them…' He turned his eyes; they pricked from staring at the picture too hard. 'Where am I to be found?'

'I think you know your true self.'

Snape waited.

'Does anyone know?' said Dumbledore. But Snape's stare demanded an answer. 'In what you hold most dear.'

Snape shook his head slowly. 'No, Dumbledore.' He took the chair arm and pulled himself to his feet. 'Too easy, too simple. Between me and the husband, can a distinction be made? Can you do it?'

'We've been through this. Your memories—'

'My memories! But who am I!'

Dumbledore's patience, so generous only moments ago, was already nearing an end. 'Sirius has confused you.'

'_Black_ has confused me? No, if anything, he's made things clearer.'

'But this is interesting. You seek for a distinction between you, yet see none between the father and son?'

'Why bring the boy into this! It is nothing to do with him!'

'No, perhaps not,' said Dumbledore calmly. 'But I must concern Harry with other things…' He turned his head and took his thoughts with him.

'So you are to talk with the boy.'

Dumbledore caught his tone. 'Harry has lost his godfather today.'

'Black was a fool—'

'I'm well aware of your opinion of him.' He sighed, and his hard gaze softened, more with weariness than anything else. 'Today has been stressful for all of us. Some more than for others.'

'And what of Moody?'

'I think that is of little concern today, wouldn't you agree?'

Snape made for the door. On reaching it amid a silence, he stopped. 'You were right on one thing, all those years ago,' he said to its solid wall. 'That was not my weakness. At least not my greatest weakness.' As he pulled it open, he looked back. 'This is.'


	15. The Moon at My Eyes

**_15. The moon at my eyes_**

Harry stopped halfway down the staircase.

All around the Great Hall, small groups were clustered, still waiting for news about their families. Harry watched from the side as several people broke away – some wearily, others eagerly – to return to their common rooms for the night.

But right now, facing all the gossip Gryffindor was sure to be humming with was the last thing Harry wanted to do.

He turned back up the stairs and wandered down a deserted corridor. Pausing at a window, he gazed out at the darkening day. He tried to focus on the scene outside. The reddening sky suddenly seemed so very far away, the mesmerising streaks of orange and gold making him feel as though he were suspended, held in its brilliant power.

Held captive by Fate. Destiny. He rested his hands on the cold stone sill.

Sirius.

It was all too much to take in.

The prophecy.

Trelawney, of all people! And Dumbledore seemed so certain it was real. _Voldemort_ seemed so certain it was real; he had even been to the Ministry to try to get the part he did not know. Harry tried to shake away the image that lingered in his memory – of Trelawney's form, risen from the Pensieve, uttering in that eerie, flat voice about his past, his future. He tried to replace it with more benign, laughable images of her nutty predictions over a used teacup in classes, his friends sniggering at her around him.

But it wasn't the same. Even her funny glasses had been unable to disguise the seriousness in Dumbledore's explanation, his grave expression as he had told Harry how he had been 'marked' by Voldemort that day. Marked to bring him down.

It was difficult to believe Trelawney had predetermined his fate before he had even been born. Dumbledore had talked about choices – but it did not seem to Harry he had much choice in the matter. In the end, he either killed Voldemort or he would be killed _by_ him. It seemed as simple as that – in spite of what Dumbledore had said about Harry holding power that Voldemort failed to understand. How could something so intangible, so insubstantial as love overthrow a Dark Lord?

It was madness. How could he possibly bring Voldemort down?

'And what about my dad? Why can't I see him?' he had demanded then. It was the first time he had mentioned James to Dumbledore this year. They had both been busy.

Dumbledore had looked grim. 'You must trust me, Harry. That will have to sort itself out in its own time.'

Harry stared now at his pale reflection wavering in the glass under the torchlight. He had been too upset, too bewildered with news of the prophecy and Sirius to push the point. No amount of arguing would bring Sirius back, or make the prophecy go away.

A soft tread behind brought him back to the corridor.

'Oh, I didn't think anyone else was still about.' Luna stared, her pale eyes studying him.

Despite her intense gaze, he found himself feeling oddly thankful for her presence at this moment in the quiet, shadowy corridor. 'Hi, Luna,' he said, glad for something, even Luna's eccentricities, to distract his whirring mind. His eyes wandered to the pile of books she held in her arms. 'Not studying tonight, were you? You did hear about the … attacks – right?'

'Oh, yes. The library was nice and quiet.' Her lips curved into a vague-looking smile.

'Right.' Burning torches crackled on the walls around them. Thoughts of Sirius and Dumbledore clouded his mind again.

'Perfect for studying,' she continued, gazing dreamily beyond him. 'I think I'm pretty well prepared for my exams now.'

Exams. OWLs. OWLs started in a week. Somehow that phrase did not raise in him the panic it normally would have done. And that in itself made him feel faintly uneasy.

She caught his expression. 'Do you think you'll do OK in your OWLs?'

'I – I dunno.'

Her prominent eyes stared unblinkingly. 'Do you know anyone? In Hogsmeade? Or the Ministry?'

Harry already knew from Fred and George that Mr Weasley was fine – luckily he had been working in a different department to the one where Voldemort had appeared. It did seem, though, that Luna suspected he did know of someone who had been caught up in the attacks. He debated whether he should really mention him to her. What harm could it do now he was – he took a breath – now he was dead?

'My – my godfather. In Hogsmeade.'

'I'm sorry.'

She seemed to know that he had not just been injured, that it had been more serious than that. Was his body language really that obvious?

Harry smiled weakly and gazed at his feet. 'Thanks.'

'It happened in the Department of Mysteries, didn't it?'

'What?' he asked, confused by her change of subject.

'You-Know-Who. Isn't that where it happened?'

He shrugged, wondering whether that was somewhere in the Ministry. Hadn't Ron's father mentioned that place last year during his trial? 'I suppose.'

'That's where the veil is,' she said serenely.

'Veil?'

She nodded. 'It's like a doorway. That's where they go.'

'Who?'

'People. When they pass over to the other side. Well, that's where your godfather is, too – just behind the veil.'

Despite his confusion at yet another of Luna's many strange ideas, he found some comfort in her reassuring, wistful smile. 'And they keep this in the Ministry, this veil?'

'Oh, yes. It's a very old mystery, you see.' She smiled contemplatively again. 'Some people say, if you listen very carefully, you can hear them whispering just behind it.'

It all sounded very odd, that the Ministry would preserve some old veil. He imagined numerous intelligent wizards puzzling over some ancient curtain. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to be Luna's most outlandish theory yet. But he still felt strangely calmed by her words and confident smile, and despite the peculiarity of her idea, he found all doubts being pushed to the back of his mind. 'And that's where … my godfather is?'

'Of course. They all pass through the veil to the other side.'

It consoled him to humour her for a few moments, to really believe Sirius was now reunited with people who cared about him. 'And that's where my mum is, too?' He glanced at her. 'And my dad,' he quickly added. But thankfully she appeared not to have noticed his slip.

'That's right,' she said confidently. 'That's where my mum is as well. I'll see her again one day.' She shifted her books across to her other arm. 'Well, I have to go find a book I've misplaced somewhere. I seem to be losing a few lately.' With a smile and a sigh, she turned to leave.

He listened to her soft footfalls fading down the corridor.

Even if this veil was real, he reasoned, there was no guarantee Sirius had really gone 'to the other side' as Luna had said. If Nearly Headless Nick could come back, why couldn't Sirius?

He turned back to the window. This was crazy, he told himself. Sirius was gone. Just like Cedric was. Just like his mum was.

His breath hit the windowpane, misting the glass for a brief moment. He wondered whether his mum missed his dad. Could she be waiting for him, like Luna said? At least, Harry knew, she would be proud of what he was doing, working for the Order again like he had done before.

Yet he had always thought they were together. Now he thought it almost seemed cruel – because his dad had been separated not only from his wife, but from his son too.

He turned from the window and took a deep breath. He knew it was senseless thinking this way any more. If his dad wanted to see him, it would happen. It would. And then they could talk about Sirius. Together.

He smiled in the empty corridor and made his way back to Gryffindor Tower.

-x-

Snape stared at the near-empty cauldron holding the final dose of Wolfsbane Potion. To his annoyance, he realised Lupin's strange attitude had made him forget to remind him. He had better at least have had the sense not to follow Moody's ill-advised suggestion to visit St Mungo's.

He hadn't liked the way Lupin had acted toward him. Moody's petty accusations were to blame. But there was no longer any need to worry about the werewolf's loose tongue. It did not matter any more what Lupin thought of him, now Black was dead.

He sat and closed his eyes. He let the gentle tug of weariness persuade his lids to stay down for a moment.

The room's silence seemed to echo Black's last words; he snapped his eyes open.

The office suddenly felt too hot, making him wonder whether he had left a cauldron on too long.

He focused on a burning candle. There would be no sleep tonight, he decided. There would be no surrender. Black and Potter would not scheme to make a mockery of him again. Not ever again. Potter had tortured him slowly over the years since his supposed death. No more. If it meant watching candles sleeplessly every night for the rest of his life, then so be it. He would have no more mornings waking to this knowledge, waking with that chilling, paralysing panic of checking his memories to see they were all still there, that no part of him had been surreptitiously replaced during the night.

He forced his eyes wider against the light's hypnotic dance and followed the shadows on the far wall. The light dipped into the crevices between bricks, tracing long-forgotten rivulets. They brought him to the locked cabinet containing Flintoff's memory given to him by Dumbledore. Anger swept through him. He blinked away green remnants of the light and gripped the chair's arms. He was damn well going to destroy that blasted thing tonight!

The minute he got to his feet with a determined glare, the sound of a soft knock shifted his frown from the cabinet. He stepped across to jerk open the door. 'What?'

The pale face of Nott greeted him, worry widening his eyes. As Snape glared, Nott's face paled further. Snape took a deep breath and forced his expression to relax into stoicism. 'What is it, Nott?'

'I – I heard they got – they got my dad. Is it true?'

Snape frowned. He had just visited the common room to inform them of the incidents at Hogsmeade and the Ministry. But it occurred to him now that he could not recall seeing Nott among the concerned students. 'I'm afraid so,' he said. 'But don't worry, your father is strong.' He decided to let the boy take that how he wanted. What else could he say? At least there were no more Dementors there to heighten his misery?

To his relief, Nott nodded, albeit uncertainly. 'Yes, sir. Thank you.'

'Now go to bed. There will be enough talk around all this in the morning, no doubt.'

'Yes, sir.'

He watched the boy trudge away, before closing the door and turning back to the room. He would have to keep an eye on the ones affected by this, particularly those with OWL and NEWT exams due to start soon. While some would hold it as a badge of honour, others would be somewhat relieved to be rid of their domineering fathers. And undoubtedly some would display the former while secretly feeling the latter. Regardless, he knew most of his Slytherins would overcome the initial shock.

His eyes rested once more on the cauldron across the room. He felt the irritation building again.

Well, if Lupin wanted to torture himself by going through the change without the Wolfsbane Potion, that was fine by him. He could stop making it now there was no need to keep the werewolf happy and silent.

He crossed to the cauldron. Though Lupin had taken all the required doses this week, without the final one, its effects would be useless at the moon's exposure tonight. Hours wasted and no gratitude for his time and effort. He thanked Merlin he had orchestrated the malingering ingrate's sacking a few years ago.

The sun would be setting around now. He frowned. Lupin had never missed a dose this year. In fact, the only time he could recall him ever neglecting to take the Potion…

Candlelight flashed over the liquid's surface.

If Lupin hadn't the sense… And if he hadn't gone to St Mungo's…

He had to find out where Lupin was, he knew. But how? How had he found out before?

He had gone to Lupin's office with the Potion and…

He lifted his gaze. Lupin's desk. The Map.

Potter.

-x-

Harry rounded the corner to Gryffindor. Two figures were standing by the portrait of the Fat Lady. Ron – his hair a shock of red next to the unmistakeable black robes of Snape – caught Harry's eye with an anxious look.

Harry stopped. He wondered what else could go wrong today. _God._ He couldn't face Snape now. But as he debated going back the way he had come, Snape turned his steely gaze on him.

'Potter,' he said, his icy tone echoing down the silent corridor, and Harry had no choice but to continue on.

'Map,' Snape said in a commanding tone as Harry approached.

'What?'

Snape's black eyes narrowed. 'The Map, Potter. Where is that map?'

'What map?' Harry glanced at Ron, who looked back at him in worried confusion.

Snape scowled deeply and took a step closer. 'You know what I mean, Potter,' he said in a low, threatening voice. 'Where is it?'

'I think he means…' whispered Ron, leaning toward him.

'Yeah, I know.' He glanced involuntarily at the Fat Lady's portrait.

'Bring it here. Now,' ordered Snape.

Harry turned to his impatient gaze. He seemed eager for the Marauder's Map, almost greedily so.

'What for?' Harry asked. 'What have I supposed to have done now?' The portrait swung open, and two first-years emerged. They threw fearful glances at Snape before scurrying past.

Snape reached out and, to her shrill objections, grabbed the Fat Lady's portrait before it could swing shut again. 'Potter, I am not interested in your self-aggrandising. Bring the Map here this instant!' Ignoring the Fat Lady's loud remonstrations of 'Brute!' and 'Bully!' as he kept a firm grasp of her large frame, he added quietly: 'Or perhaps you would prefer I go to your room personally and search for it myself?'

Harry sensed Ron fidgeting beside him. But he did not have the energy for a fight today. He gave in with gritted teeth. 'Fine.'

'I'll come help,' said Ron rather desperately, pushing Harry into the common room through the Fat Lady's increasingly ear-splitting wails of protest at Snape's manhandling of her.

'He just cornered me when I was going out,' said Ron with a note of resentful contrition. His expression shifted into concern as they moved farther inside. 'Are you OK?'

'Yeah.'

'I heard about, you know, Sirius.'

'Yeah.' Harry stopped near the stairs to the boys' dormitory. 'Look, I'd better go and get this map.' He turned from Ron, who still appeared somewhat troubled – about the idea of Snape searching their room, Harry guessed – and entered the dorms.

Thankfully, the dormitory was empty. Once by his bed, Harry dragged out his trunk, where he had stuffed the Map after his futile trip to the Forbidden Forest the week before.

Rifling through its contents, and shoving aside his broomstick cleaning kit from among a heap of old textbooks, his stomach lurched as the cold handle of the magical knife Sirius had given him the Christmas before last came into his hand.

He sat back against his bed and opened out one of its attachments – he guessed this one, with its odd, slightly twisty shape, was meant to undo any knot. He traced its slender curves with his finger.

He wondered whether James remembered Sirius – what would he do now if he found out about his old friend's death? Would he even care?

The worst thing – and Harry felt slightly selfish thinking it – was that Sirius couldn't even have a proper funeral. Maybe one day, he reasoned, the Ministry would clear Sirius's name, but he was still a wanted criminal in their eyes, and Dumbledore and the rest of the Order would have to answer very difficult questions if they got wind of any funeral. Sirius would have to have a private burial, Dumbledore had told him. Secret. As though his entire life was being quietly swept under the carpet.

As Harry fingered the silvery metal, a sickening feeling grew in his stomach. Maybe Sirius had thought _he_ was at Hogsmeade along with the others – could that, he wondered, have been why Sirius had gone there against orders? Could he have known he had been at Quidditch practice at the time?

'Harry?'

Placing the knife back in the trunk, Harry picked out the deactivated Map from where it lay in a corner behind a bottle of Doxy repellent.

'You OK?' asked Ron on seeing him kneeling by the bed.

'Yeah.' Harry stood after he had locked his trunk and shifted it back under his bed. 'Found it.' He held up the Map.

'Great.' Ron did indeed look relieved, making Harry wonder if Snape was becoming impatient again. 'What do you think he wants it for?'

'I don't know.' Harry frowned. 'But I'm not letting it out of my sight. He can't confiscate it from me unless he's got proper evidence I broke some rule.'

'Which he won't have – because you didn't.'

'Right.'

'Unless he makes up a rule.' At Harry's doubtful look he added, 'Well, it wouldn't be the first time, would it?'

Harry pointed to his bed. 'Not even a made-up rule could cover a Map that's been locked in this trunk virtually the entire school year.' _Apart from last week_, he added silently – but surely that had nothing to do with this? He'd already had detention for that this afternoon.

Ron, though, did not seem entirely convinced about Snape's motives.

'Where on earth have you been, Harry?' called out Hermione when they passed back through the common room. She looked at him anxiously when he did not stop to talk. 'What's the matter?'

'Snape is what's the matter,' said Ron, as Harry made his way to the door. He left Ron to explain as he went to confront Snape.

He found him pacing up and down outside in the corridor, arms folded. Snape's mood seemed to have grown more stormy. He turned his surly expression on Harry as soon as he stepped from the portrait hole.

Snape bore down and all but snatched the Map from his hand. But Harry was left feeling even more bemused – and flushed with anger – as Snape immediately spoke the secret phrase to reveal the Map's contents.

Snape glowered furiously down his hooked nose at the old parchment. 'Just as I thought!' he hissed. 'What is the fool up to now?'

'Who told—?'

But Snape was striding down the corridor.

Harry hurried to keep up. Snape was too transfixed with whatever the Map was showing him to notice Harry striving to reach his side to get a look at the Map around his curtain of greasy hair. Whatever Snape was up to, Harry wasn't about to let him get away with the Map and use it to his own ends. He felt some kind of personal responsibility for it because he had been given it by Fred and George, then by Lupin.

But before he could utter another protest, he was careering down the stairs after Snape. He used the moment in the Entrance Hall while Snape unbolted the great doors to catch his breath. Where was Snape taking the Map? And why? And who had told him the secret words? But he had no chance to ask questions as Snape strode out into the overcast night.

Harry threw himself after him. He jogged one step behind Snape's fast strides across the dark school grounds. Snape, meanwhile, still had his large nose pointed firmly at the Map. Whatever it was, it was captivating enough to prevent him noticing – or caring – Harry was tagging along. Uppermost in Harry's mind was making sure the Map stayed in one piece.

Suddenly Snape came to a stop. Harry had to focus all his effort to keep from colliding into him. He followed Snape's line of sight, which had at last lifted from the Map. They were at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

The week before came back to him, when he had last been here with Snape in the middle of the night. He backed off to put some distance between himself and Snape. He scanned the line of the Forest, but saw nothing.

Then he noticed something as his eyes adjusted to the dark. It was the shadowy outline of a man. Snape had seen it too: He started toward it, lighting his wand as he went.

Harry crept after, maintaining his distance. He squinted through the glare from Snape's wand.

The closer they approached the figure, the more Harry was sure he recognised the man's outline, his posture, the way his shoulders hung…

Snape's urgent voice drifted over and confirmed Harry's suspicions.

'Lupin!'

-x-

Lupin was staring into the Forest. Snape shone his wand in his face and watched Lupin's pupils contract. His attention stayed fixed beyond him. A warning beat struck up in Snape's chest. Why was Lupin standing out here in the dark like an idiot?

'Lupin, you can't stay out here. Go home or come back to the castle to take your Potion.'

Lupin blinked. It was his only response, and it alleviated none of Snape's growing unease.

'Come back into the castle for your Potion,' Snape repeated. But Lupin merely continued looking vacantly ahead. 'Are you listening to me?'

Snape wanted to demand he tell him why he was behaving like such a fool. Why wasn't he paying him any heed? Had Moody poisoned his mind with his accusations? Surely he did not believe them? But then he remembered their talk a few months ago, when he had touched on his past. It had been careless of him. Did Lupin now think he had murdered Black?

Snape closed his eyes. Why didn't Lupin just go to St Mungo's and visit his inept girlfriend as he had been told to?

'I should have stopped him.'

Snape's eyes snapped back open at the hoarse words. Lupin's empty expression had not changed, and Snape wondered whether he could have imagined them. They had been barely above the whisper of the wind behind him through the trees.

Then Lupin's lips moved.

'I should have been there to stop him. I let him leave. I let him down. What sort of friend lets someone go to his death?'

-x-

Harry strained to hear, but Snape's words did not stand a chance against the wind rushing through the Forest. But in the light of Snape's wand he saw the eerie look on Lupin's face.

'Lupin!' Snape's bellowing voice drifted over, its urgency slicing fear into Harry.

Perhaps something in it reminded him of a similar night when Lupin had frightened him – whatever it was, Harry glanced upward – and saw a brief sliver of moonlight struggle to push through dense clouds at the horizon.

He could not move. The moon was rising. Was it full? Any moment now the clouds might pass and… But Lupin must have taken his Wolfsbane Potion this time? It couldn't happen again – could it? But why was Snape out here too? Had he purposely tracked Lupin out here? Oh, God, surely it wasn't going to happen again!

It was Lupin's expression that scared him the most. Lupin looked confused, uncertain. Detached.

'You cannot stay here!' Snape shouted close to Lupin's ear, so that he could not have failed to respond. But he didn't. 'You need—'

Lupin seemed to be speaking.

'Lupin! Listen to me!' The strange edge to Snape's tone made the back of Harry's neck prickle. He kept an eye on them while snatching glances at the moon's path, then noticed Snape seemed to think the same way. His face, paler than usual, looked up. The clouds were shifting. A large bank was still moving across the dark sky, but it would not be long before the moon rose and broke through to cast its full light down onto the grounds.

It was then Snape noticed Harry: He lowered his gaze from the skyline, and glanced across the grounds where Harry stood.

The light from his wand showed a flash of fear in his dark eyes. It flickered into confusion. It took only a heartbeat for the burning fury to take hold.

Snape glanced back up at the clouds and then at Lupin before returning his gaze to Harry. As though reaching a decision, he turned his wand and marched toward him. Before Harry had time to think, he had been grabbed by the arm.

'What—' Harry tried to struggle free. He wasn't about to let Snape drag him back to the castle again like last week.

'Potter, don't be a fool! In case you haven't noticed, it is a full moon tonight. And Lupin has neglected to take his Potion.'

Oh, God, it _was_ happening again!

Harry fought hard – harder than last time – and finally managed to escape Snape's grasp. 'But what about Lupin?' he shouted as he backed away.

Snape turned and tried to catch his arm. 'Don't be an idiot, Potter! There's nothing to be done!'

'You can't just leave him here!' Against his better judgement, Harry stepped back toward where Lupin still stood, his stationary figure framed against the backdrop of the dark Forest.

'Listen to me! There is nothing more to be done!' Snape glanced skyward, his eyes wider than Harry had ever seen them.

'But what if he hurts someone out here? What if he gets to Hogsmeade? There must be something you can do!'

'There is no time!' But despite his obvious anger, Snape made no further move toward Harry. His eyes darted between him, Lupin, and the shifting sky. 'Return to the castle now!'

Harry stared at Snape's wide eyes, his angry gaze, and looked up at the thinning clouds. 'If Sirius was here, he'd help him.' He felt as though he were appealing to the moonlight poking through in slender shafts.

'It is Black's absence that has caused this!'

Harry could barely stand to hear Snape mention Sirius, after he had needled him all year. It was Snape who had made him finally leave the safety of Grimmauld Place. 'What's wrong with you? My dad'd help him!'

Snape opened his mouth in a snarl. A distant noise from the Forest made him look up where the moon's edge was already becoming clearer.

'Can't you use a spell to stop him?' Harry thought of suitable spells. 'The Body-Bind Curse?' He turned to face Lupin and reached in his robes for his wand.

'NO!' Snape was at his ear, yanking him back. 'Spells are useless on a werewolf. The force must be maintained continuously. And even then it is too dangerous.' He brought his face to Harry's. 'Why do you think the Wolfsbane Potion was invented, you stupid boy?'

'We can't just let him hurt someone! He'd hate himself! There's got to be _something_ you can do!' But Snape did not seem to be listening. His eyes were flitting between the castle – its lights flickering in the distance across the dark expanse of the grounds – and the bank of clouds above the horizon, about to reveal the moon any moment. Harry did not want to plead with Snape, but he did not have the strength, after what had happened to Sirius, to argue with him. '_Please!_'

Snape's fingers dug harder into Harry's arms as he rested his eyes on Lupin's frozen silhouette. 'Get to Hagrid's hut,' he hissed. 'It's closer.'

'But—'

'Now!' Snape pushed him roughly away.

Harry stumbled back. He stared at Snape's strange look of determination. 'But what are you—'

'I said _now_, Potter!' Snape turned his wand on him and ended his Lumos spell, plunging them into a darkness that invited in the moon's restless light. Snape's voice was low, and every bit as threatening. 'Unless you want to be hexed all the way there.'

No longer able to make out Snape's face in the dark, Harry glanced beyond him where Lupin stood. He took a few uncertain steps backward before turning on his heel and breaking into a run in the direction of Hagrid's hut.

As he ran, he hoped feverishly this was not some trickery of Snape's to get him away so he could turn back to the castle and leave Lupin out here alone.

-x-

Snape made sure the boy was far enough away before he turned to Lupin. He pointed his darkened wand at Lupin's motionless back.

The old fear was rising, threatening to strangle his senses. At the world's edge, twisting black shapes were taunting him. They might have been the Whomping Willow's offspring bidding him back to his youth.

Though he could still hear his own breaths, and his heart in his throat, his hands were gratifyingly steady.

'I want you to know,' he whispered as, at the skyline, the last bank of cloud surrendered the moon's radiance onto the earth, 'how much I hate you for this, Lupin.'

Carefully, and without taking his eyes from the transforming werewolf's shuddering limbs, Snape slid his wand deep inside his robes.

-x-

Harry hammered on the large oak door. There was a gap in the thin curtains, and he peered through. A few candles were burning low inside; no one seemed to be in. He glanced around for any sign of Hagrid, but couldn't see far enough in the dark…

The full moon flooded the grounds. It had risen, and the last bank of cloud was gone.

He turned back desperately to the door. The latch gave way, and he stumbled into the hut reeling with relief. He bolted it shut.

There was no sign of Hagrid. The fireplace was cold, and Fang's basket sat empty in the corner. Harry shivered in the gloomy light that hovered over the usual array of dead game birds hanging from the rafters. He hoped Hagrid was at the castle or somewhere else safe. But he stayed close to the door so he could quickly unlock it if he returned.

The hut's chilly air had blotted droplets of water over the window's glass. He drew his sleeve across them, leaned into the pane and set his hands around his face to see beyond the reflected candlelight. Outside, the grounds were still bathed in silver.

He wondered what Snape was up to. If he had not left, what was he doing to Lupin?

A guttural howl came out of the dark like a hand that slapped him away and stole his breath. He had last heard that noise nearly two years ago.

He hoped Snape wasn't hurting him. He remembered the Shrieking Shack and Lupin writhing under Snape's merciless Binding spell.

He crept back to the window. Beyond the glossy moonlight, dark shapes flitted across the Forest's edge.

He wished Hagrid were here as Lupin wailed again, louder and closer this time.

It seemed Snape had failed to control the werewolf, and Harry was regretting his earlier hesitancy to return to the castle's safety. He had only been trying to help, but he should have learned his lesson from last time. How could he have been so naive as to expect Snape to be able to think of a spell when it had been Padfoot who had saved them before? He could not tear himself from the window, where he knew Lupin in his werewolf form, jaws snarling, would rear in the next moment.

But it was something else he saw – something even more familiar to him.

In fact, the beast was exactly the same as he remembered it – apart from one, important, detail. Though framed in silver from the moonlight, the one he now watched dashing not ten yards away was not the silvery replica he knew so well – it was the living, breathing original that was gliding right here, right in front of him.

He watched it trace an arc toward the Forest border, its tall antlers throwing intricate shadows across the grounds as it went.

This was the real thing this time! He widened his eyes to take in as much of it as he could, and dared to believe after all these months of waiting and hoping.

The pane misted over again as the realisation burst out in a quiet gasp. '_Dad?_'


	16. There Are Many Deer in the Forest

**_16. There are many deer in the forest_**

'What time is it?' Ron propped himself on an elbow and rubbed his eyes.

'Ron, I saw him. I actually saw him.'

Ron squinted at him. 'It's the middle of the night.' He fell back down on to his pillow. 'Can't it wait till morning?' and he rolled over.

'I saw my dad.' Harry sat close on the bed, so that Ron pulled the covers higher when it dipped.

There was a muffled noise somewhere across the room. 'What time is it?' groaned Dean.

'Too bloody late,' grumbled Ron beneath the duvet.

'But it was him,' Harry whispered as he leaned over Ron's shoulder. 'Prongs. By the Forest. Ron!'

Ron flipped onto his back. 'Mate, is that where you've been?' He stifled a yawn. 'We stayed up wondering where you'd got to.'

'Yeah – look, sorry I made you worry – but it was worth it. It was Prongs!'

'What? A stag?'

'It wasn't just any stag.'

'How do you know? I'll bet there are loads out there.'

'But it was him – he was—'

'Can't we talk in the morning?'

Harry had thought he had finally got his attention, but Ron was already burrowing back into his bed.

Harry slid across to his own. It might wait until the morning, but when the night eventually retreated, the treasure it had offered a taste of would remain known only to him and the moon. He looked at it now. It hid behind a thin cloud, its veiled light winking with delight at their shared secret.

He was pleased he had managed to stop himself spilling everything to Hagrid when the giant had returned.

He had spent the last hours pressed to the hut's cold glass, scanning the night for antlers, frustrated he could not go out to meet his dad because Lupin was howling again. He told Hagrid about Snape and Lupin – but, though he was bursting to, he did not mention seeing his father's Animagus. He was only too aware that it was Hagrid's carelessness with secrets that had led to Harry finding out many things he was not supposed to have – like Fluffy in first year.

Harry tried to tell him about Lupin transforming. But he was certain that Professor Lupin would never be that reckless on the school grounds. He staked Fang's life on it. And he refused to believe the protestations that it had happened before.

Hagrid heard no wolfish noises, and he insisted on escorting Harry back to the castle, adamant he must have got things mixed up – after all, Harry had not actually _seen_ Professor Lupin turn into a werewolf tonight.

Harry had wanted to stay a little longer in case Prongs was still out there. _Prongs! His dad!_

Outside the dormitory, the moon searched the sky.

Somehow Snape had got a message to James, and he had come to help Lupin, just like he had every month with Sirius years ago.

Harry forgot the prophecy Dumbledore had told him earlier, delivering his thoughts to be shaped instead by the greater fate that had brought him to the Forest tonight. Sirius had gone away and his dad had come back.

Celestial beasts with wispy limbs danced across the moon's brilliant white face as he dreamed.

-x-

Remus obediently accepted the goblet from Snape. He clutched it between his palms and returned his attention to the stone floor.

His head was spinning with a million thoughts and questions. Such as _How could he have been so reckless?_ He had sworn this would not happen again! Dumbledore would be furious.

'What are you doing?'

'I should go home.' Remus strove to leave the chair. His muscles protested. What had the wolf been doing with them?

'Drink that first.' Snape pushed the goblet back into his hand. 'I will not be held responsible for the discovery of your unconscious form at the side of some road. I dare say that will be all it takes for someone to get the wrong idea about a werewolf's activities on the night of a full moon. But, of course, if you _want_ to be reported to the Ministry—'

'"Wrong idea"?' His mouth was dry. 'I'd say they'd have the right idea, wouldn't you?'

The nothing Snape said was like a hand round his throat.

'I don't think I … hurt anyone.' He turned away from Snape's blank canvas. 'I don't remember eating anything.' His mind was a tangle of woody scents and damp soil.

'What _do_ you remember?' asked Snape after a moment.

He was obliged to think. 'I remember leaving the castle. Just about. After that… Well, things are vague at the best of times when the mind becomes wolfish.'

'So,' Snape spoke slowly, 'you don't remember anything about what happened tonight on the grounds?'

Snape's tone – like a Ministry official trying to acquire all the facts of a case – made his heart thud. Snape should be berating him for letting in the wolfish mind by neglecting the Wolfsbane Potion. But the concern, and the urgency of it, pulling at Snape's eyes could not have been more unbearable. 'You don't think I … that I did hurt anyone?'

He held firm under Snape's slicing gaze. Snape knew that he had harmed someone. But Snape glanced down and distended his agony. 'Drink it before it loses its potency.' His voice was stern again as he drew Remus back to the untouched goblet in his hands.

The dull Calming Draught offered him no answers. In his dry mouth there was the usual flavour of dog breath, but no other – human or otherwise. He might be left with vague memories of feasting on some poor wild animal and have a lingering taste of fresh blood. But not tonight. Tonight was wide open and fearful. He clasped his robes tighter. He had forgotten how cold these damp dungeon rooms could get.

Thank Merlin Snape had found him after the moon had set. He thought hard. 'I was still on the grounds when you found me?'

'What?'

'When you found me after the moon had set, was I still on the grounds?'

Snape looked away irritably. 'Yes, yes. I found you on the school grounds.'

That was some relief at least, he reasoned. 'That means I probably didn't leave them, then. At least, I didn't reach Hogsmeade.'

It was not normal for Snape to be so silent at something so downright reckless. 'Or perhaps I went there and came back?' Remus tried.

'Or perhaps you'll drink that blasted Draught down and leave me in peace?'

At Snape's angry tone, he acquiesced with a sip. It left a mouldy tang, like old, dank wood – nothing compared to the Wolfsbane Potion. How he wished its foul taste were lurking between his dogteeth now.

He drank, and felt the Calming Draught begin to work.

'I did in fact try to save the stupid mutt's life. Not that he'd have appreciated it.' Snape's hard voice brought Remus back to the chilly room.

'What?'

'Contrary to what you've been told.'

'Told?'

'The lies Moody delights in spreading about me.'

Remus tried to cast his mind back through the maddening haze, back, back to when he had learned Tonks had been rushed to St Mungo's and Sirius was no more. Mad-Eye had grunted at all this, then mentioned something about seeing Snape in Hogsmeade.

'Well?' demanded Snape.

'Well … I think Mad-Eye mentioned something … something about seeing you with Sirius…' He wanted to changed the subject. An argument with Snape was the last thing he needed right now. But the only other one vying for attention was his irresponsible behaviour tonight. He took another gulp of the Calming Draught.

'Yet he readily uses the information I provide when it suits him.' To Remus's dismay, Snape was still using the same angry tone. 'Blasted Moody!' he spat. 'Making difficulties instead of helping matters.'

'You know what Mad-Eye's like. What makes this time any different?'

Snape muttered something that sounded horribly like 'Blasted Black'.

'That's not fair,' muttered Remus in return, hugging his goblet. 'This isn't Sirius's fault. It's not his fault he's dead.'

_I should have been there to stop him._

A dim memory broke through the haze – the sharp light of a wand in his eyes against the pitch black night.

He squeezed his eyes closed. Though he wanted more than anything to know he had not hurt anyone in his utter foolishness that night, part of him dreaded what he might remember.

The Forbidden Forest had seemed so inviting tonight. He had seen Padfoot there snuffling its welcoming branches, tail wagging warily. Already he had seemed to have made new friends.

_Pull yourself together, Remus._

'I just,' his voice was pathetically quiet, 'I just miss my friend.'

He had met Snape's gaze, but Snape suddenly broke it as though stung. The curtain of black hair was drawn over his face. 'He's gone.'

Snape's hard voice was oddly resolute and Remus thought not just of Sirius but of his other old Marauder friend. 'I know.'

Snape snorted. 'I wouldn't have been forced to deal with your foolish behaviour tonight if you'd taken Moody's ludicrous advice to go to St Mungo's.'

Remus's heart skipped a beat. St Mungo's. He hoped Tonks was being properly cared for. 'Why would I have wanted to do that?' he asked, rather hoarsely.

'I dare say there is no one else who would want to pay a visit to your clumsy girlfriend.' He raised an eyebrow. 'She is almost as imprudent and careless as you, wouldn't you say? I suppose you and Nymphadora are made for one another.'

Remus felt nauseous again. 'I don't know what you're talking about. She's not my girlfriend.'

'Indeed. I wonder then why it is you make a show of avoiding her each Order meeting while she does the opposite at every blasted meeting. And where exactly _were_ you when Black galloped off to Hogsmeade against orders this afternoon?'

Oh, Merlin. Remus held his swimming head. Of course: He had volunteered to back up that covert surveillance on the shop owner suspected of passing information on to a Death Eater. Which just happened to be Tonks's assignment. But it had been dangerous, he reasoned. It was no job for an inexperienced Auror recruit like her without someone around the corner just in case.

_But wasn't leaving Sirius all alone like that even more dangerous? Look what happened to him. Tonks may be in hospital, but Sirius is dead._

'Lupin.' Snape's voice was loud. Remus looked up to see he was just a few feet away, his eyes narrowed accusingly. 'Do you intend to drink that or not? I was planning on getting _some_ sleep at some point before the morning.' He paused and somehow managed to look even more reproachful. 'It's been a long day.'

Remus dropped his eyes to the Draught in his hand. It looked like he had barely touched it.

He drank it off in four gulps and prepared for the numbness to lift.

'Well,' declared Snape. He was back across the room. 'At least that's one potion tonight that hasn't gone to complete waste.'

The office door flew open. Harry bowled in, arm pivoting on the handle and in his school robes. His face was flushed.

'What the—'

'Harry!'

Harry's head whipped round. On seeing Remus his eyes grew wilder with delight. 'I saw him,' he gasped excitedly.

'What do you think you're doing, Potter?' Snape's voice was taut; too restrained for Remus's liking.

Remus turned to him: Snape's expression radiated fury, his yellowish, uneven teeth bared under narrowed eyes that stared at Harry with menace. 'Harry,' Remus kept his eyes on Snape, 'go back to bed. It's late.' He glanced back. 'Why are you in your school robes?'

Harry still clung to the door. 'I saw him,' he said again, but more unequivocally now he had regained his breath.

Remus's heart was ignoring the Calming Draught under Harry's wild entrance. Was he talking about tonight? Was it possible Harry had somehow seen him in his werewolf form? 'What do you mean?' Remus's throat was dry. 'What did you see, Harry?'

'Prongs!' Harry's wide eyes shone with excitement. 'You remember, right? He was with you!'

Remus watched his elation. How much he reminded him of James when he had found some new secret passage through the castle. He felt his heart descend. 'Harry. That's not possible.' Why on earth would Harry say such a thing? After all these months of giving him false hope of the possibility of seeing his father again, Harry had clearly begun to want it so much that he had imagined seeing James for himself. How could he have let the lies go so far, get so out of control?

He felt too weary to argue, to be adjudicator between Harry's excitement and Snape's fury tonight, too tired to further the horrible lies. 'Please, Harry. Go to bed. It's late.' He shifted his gaze across the room to see whether the inevitable argument was showing any signs of arriving.

Snape was by his desk, cold gaze fixed on Harry. And his expression was rigid. He was a deathly pale. His mouth was a thin line of fear.

Remus directed his full attention to Harry.

'I saw him!' he was saying again. 'He was there! By the Forest.' For the first time since entering he looked properly at Snape. Confusion had crept into his face when he looked back at Remus. 'You don't remember.'

Remus studied him. He didn't need to check again Snape's altered expression. He didn't know how in the world it was possible, but Harry was telling the truth. He took a breath and tried to make some sense out of all of this. 'Harry – you were on the grounds tonight?'

He nodded. 'I saw him from Hagrid's hut.'

'Go to bed, Potter,' Snape's terse voice came from down the room. 'Now.'

'But … you must have – you must have called him?' Harry turned his confusion on Remus. 'We found you on the grounds before the moon came out. When I went to Hagrid's, I saw him helping you. Snape had called him to come help you.'

'It is a forest, Potter. There are many deer – male and female – in the Forbidden Forest.' Snape's voice sounded horribly colder than usual.

'But I saw him. It wasn't just any stag. It was him! I'd know him anywhere!'

Though his heart was in his throat, Remus forced it to turn. Snape had arranged his face into stoicism: His eyes had narrowed again, his jaw relaxed into apparent disinterest. He continued staring at Harry, refusing to meet Remus's gaze.

'That's right.' Remus's voice sounded cold to his ears. 'Because Harry's Patronus is his father's Animagus form – as it has been right from the start.' Though Snape's eyes stayed fixed on Harry, Remus felt some triumph at catching them widen slightly.

He rose and took Harry's arm. 'Go get some sleep.'

'But – but you believe me, right? Snape – he – it was him. Why isn't he –? You believe me, right?'

'I believe you, Harry,' Remus assured him, steering him gently out of the office. 'Now try to get some sleep before the morning. We'll talk later, I promise.' With some reluctance, he closed the door on Harry's small nod and turned back to the room.

Now they were alone, Snape could no longer avoid him. He was schooling himself defiantly from face to feet. Remus turned over the implications of what Harry had said.

It was down to James's magical core, of course – that much at least he had worked out. Snape must have been practising changing into James's Animagus form in secret for months to be able to do it properly. But how could he have done this without telling anyone? Without telling him?

'You were never going to tell me, were you?' he whispered. Snape drew himself up, along with the growing heat in Remus's belly. 'Obviously,' he ground out, 'you've managed to get over your fear of using James's magical core, then?'

That got a reaction out of him. 'I had no _fear_ of that conceited fool's useless so-called powers,' he spat. 'I was naive enough to think I might find _some_ useful form – find _some_ use for his special brand of pretentious magic. But, clearly, pragmatism is simply against the Potter nature.'

'Well, clearly not _completely_ useless, as tonight proved?'

Snape simply sneered in return.

Remus tried a few shallow breaths. 'And how were you going to explain being there with Harry before I transformed? I suppose you'd have thought of something, wouldn't you? Like you always do.' He shook out a bitter laugh. 'You just… you just can't help not telling the truth about everything, can you? You lie to Harry—'

'I have _never_ lied to Potter!'

Remus studied his anger. 'No,' he acquiesced quietly. 'That's right. You just get others to do that for you, don't you? Like me?' How stupid he had been to agree to Snape's request to lie to Harry in the first place! For the first time he truly realised what had been patently obvious all along. 'You've no intention of telling Harry the truth, have you? None at all. Just like you were never going to tell me about tonight.' He stared at Snape's unmovable refusal to answer the questions they both knew were rhetorical. 'You were fully prepared to let me believe I'd hurt someone rather than tell me the truth, weren't you?' Remus could hardly bear that infuriating stoicism any longer. 'Just like with Harry. You don't give a damn how much these lies are hurting him, do you? As long as you're all right. As long as you can keep your little secrets and shut out the rest of the world, then everything's fine, isn't it? Well, I've had enough of helping you keep your secrets, Severus. Harry deserves to know the truth. Why did you make me lie to him in the first place? Just for your own selfish agenda!'

'Selfish?' The viciousness of his snarl betrayed the simmering tension within. 'Selfish? Perhaps I should have left you out there tonight if I'm _selfish_? Have you any _idea_ what I did tonight?'

'No. And I never would have either, if Harry hadn't seen!' He forced his anger down a notch. 'You just don't care what damage all this is doing to him, blithely carrying on with your dangerous games, hiding yourself away. And don't tell me you're doing this for his sake, that it would be worse if he knew. We both know you simply have a natural aversion for telling the truth.'

'Have you the _slightest inkling_ what it takes to be a spy for one side while playing the role of one for the other?'

'That has nothing to do with this—'

'Oh, doesn't it?' He swept around his desk, stepping closer to Remus, who looked on dispassionately as Snape lowered his voice to melodramatic mode. 'The Dark Lord wanted Potter to know – and at this moment, he believes he _does_ know. Do you believe the Dark Lord orchestrated this past year out of generosity?' Lips curled. 'You will be playing right into his hands.'

Remus looked sadly at the exaggerated urgency. What did it matter what Voldemort thought? And didn't Snape realise Harry would care least of all? 'Why do you push people away?' he said softly.

'I _beg_ your pardon?' Snape raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise that was not wholly feigned. '_I_ happen not to despise my own company.' Eyes raked over Remus. 'Not everyone is so blatantly needy for what they see as friendship,' he spat, and snorted with derision. 'If the Dark Lord himself requested you be his best friend – I dare say you would be by his side in a _heartbeat_.'

As the last bitter words hung like a rotting corpse, the full weight of all the events of the last twenty-four hours seemed suddenly to collapse in on Remus. He drew himself up in one last fight. 'One week,' he said, and he looked Snape firmly in the eye. 'I'll give you one week to tell Harry everything.' From the door, he said, 'Though you'll most likely leave it up to me to tell him, as usual.'

Out in the dank dungeon corridor, with only the sound of his own thumping heart for company, he squeezed his eyes closed and tried to picture the stag he hadn't seen in so many years.

But it was no use – he found himself barely able to hold a thought in his weary head, much less remember anything else through the wolfish turmoil of his mind.

He glanced at Snape's door. _I hope you're happy you've let your precious Dark Lord win, Severus_, he thought. _I hope you're glad you've given him what he'd wanted – what he'd aimed for by letting the truth out. To hurt Harry. To hurt you._ He turned away and headed home.

-x-

_Selfish!_

With a flick of the wand, Snape cleaned the cauldron of the wasted remnants of Wolfsbane Potion. The werewolf had the gall to call him _selfish_ – after what he had put himself through this night! At least he'd had the satisfaction of witnessing the hurt in the werewolf's eyes on pointing out his nauseating neediness for friendship.

He fell into the chair. No – he clenched a fist on the desk – the werewolf had deserved it. Hadn't he done enough for him? Hadn't he just spent the night preventing some poor wretch from being torn to pieces? Hadn't he sacrificed his very _dignity_?

The hours he had played at that big-headed fool's crass pinnacle of exhibitionism! Hours keeping check on the very creature that used to terrorise his dreams! Too many hours herding the wolf, dancing to the Potter tune round the Forest.

Ridden with fatigue, his stomach roiled. The revolting odour of dank dog fur seemed to cling to the air, so much more pungently than twenty years ago. It was doubtful that an hour under a hot shower would be enough to wash away the horrible scent this time. He swallowed back rising bile.

As for Lupin's empty threat – in the morning Lupin would realise telling the boy the truth now would simply be out of the question. Not if he wanted Potter to hate him. He smirked in the gloom. Not the needy werewolf.

He clenched his jaw. Drat that boy.

Of course, if the brat hadn't presumed to burst into his office unannounced in the middle of the night, he would have had time to think of something for when Potter inevitably blabbed about being on the grounds with him earlier. And the blasted boy had to have – _again_ – seen what he shouldn't, hadn't he?

Well, he assured himself, closing his eyes and willing himself to relax, that wasn't anything to worry about. Potter would simply come to believe it was an ordinary deer like the many that dwelled in the Forest.

Suddenly, Lupin's words hit him again like a wall of fire. _Because Harry's Patronus is his father's Animagus form._

More acid in his throat. How could he have thought meddling with the boy's father's magical core would not have had any repercussions? What a classic fool he had been.

Blasted Potters! Both insisting on making his life intolerable at every turn. Like father, like son, after all!

As his mind turned again through the day's horrible events – his jaw becoming tighter and tighter, the tense pain in his temple increasing with each second – a sharp heat shot through his forearm.

He gritted his teeth.

Not one to miss out, plainly the Dark Lord was eager to take part in his continuing torture today by doling out yet more blame for the humiliation at the Ministry.

He nursed his arm as the burning showed no sign of lessening its grip. He supposed it would take many more such summonses for the Dark Lord to get the fiasco of this afternoon out of his system.

His thoughts turned to Bellatrix and their encounter earlier. He hoped she would not be present again, throwing accusations like knives. From what he could recall of that hazy hour following Hogsmeade, he had only just succeeded in convincing the Dark Lord of his ignorance of the attack on the village.

Hastily he prepared his mind. At least the attempts to clear it would serve as a distraction from everything else that had happened today.

And why not, he thought, glancing at the clock. It was nearly four in the morning, and he was hardly likely to get any sleep now in any case. He could barely remember the last time he had felt so eager for a day to end.

He rose to collect his cloak and mask.


	17. Just a Dream

**_17. Just a dream_**

Lupin didn't remember.

Harry sank onto his still-made bed and took off his shoes, clumps of dried mud falling to the floor. He placed his glasses on the bedside table and soundlessly changed into his pyjamas. He drew the bed curtains and shut out the morning. The first cautious notes of dawn chorus filtered in, like pins, and froze him in place beneath the covers.

Lupin didn't remember.

But Lupin did believe him – he had said he believed him, hadn't he? Why would Lupin doubt him?

And why wouldn't Snape tell him what had happened? It almost sounded as though Snape wanted all the credit, as usual.

At least Lupin had promised to see him later. He would remember then – he would have to. Perhaps the gap in his memory was because of the change to a werewolf – just a temporary after-effect that would wear off soon.

But Snape – Harry tensed – how could he just stand there and tell him he had seen an ordinary stag? Snape had summoned James – he had _known_ it was Prongs. How could he lie like that in front of Lupin? Why _would_ he lie?

He turned onto his side. Lupin would remember, and then he wouldn't believe Snape's lies.

He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the room: the soft snoring, the distant creaks of early risers, the confident birdsong. His mind returned to what Snape had said: _There are many deer in the Forest…_ The words faded as exhaustion overtook him. It had been an eventful day. He let thoughts of Sirius and Prongs and Snape drift away. He needed some sleep…

But the sound of distant footsteps troubled him.

While at first their steady pace lulled him, very soon he became aware of them growing louder, heavier. As they seemed to draw closer – the rhythmic sound of boot on wood so loud he thought the owner must surely be right beside him now – the silence as they came to a sudden halt brought him to the room.

The light from above was dim, barely reaching across the small, bare room to the paint-blistered door. Outside, the footsteps were receding down the hallway.

Harry waited until they had faded, then took the short step to the old door. He tried the handle – it opened easily. Though it creaked on its ancient hinges, he eased the door wide. The light in the empty corridor, though not as unnatural-seeming as that in the room, was just as bleak, desolate.

Nevertheless, he felt at home in this dankness, this familiar chill that sank into his bones.

Empowered, he stepped into the passageway. In the distance, voices rumbled, coarse laughter erupting every few moments. He followed them. His steps echoed on the wooden floorboards.

He passed a window, boarded up, blocking out all natural light. A small shaft of sunlight struggled to gain entrance, clouds of dust illuminated, eddying madly in its depths as he passed.

He pressed on toward the voices until he came to an unfastened door. He leaned in to it. Though the voices were coming from here, they remained muffled. He pushed it open and took in the room. Aside from the large table in the centre, the something half-eaten that was decaying on its dirty surface, and the chairs strewn untidily around it, only a battered but comparatively clean kettle on a rusty corner stove indicated that the room was still in use as a kitchen. A door led off to the left from which a thin light bled out. The voices were just behind there.

Eager to learn what they were saying, and as a fresh wave of pitched laughter rolled into the makeshift kitchen, he strode across. A male voice tinged with impatience came into hearing. '…Just leave him.'

'Later, Rookwood,' replied a deep voice. 'I haven't finished with him yet. I should use another decent curse for good measure.'

'He won't last long as it is,' Rookwood snapped. 'You'll just make it faster. And it should be as long and drawn out as possible, after what he did.' Thin laughter rattled from the room. 'It really is too ironic – dying at the hand of your own poison. Add to the traitorous poison that's already inside you, eh?'

Harry pushed nearer to the sliver of light stealing around the door's edges. His heart hammered with fear – or was it excitement?

'Didn't think he would know?' growled the other man – the keen one. 'Thought you'd got away with it, did you? You ought to know by now no one can keep the truth from the Dark Lord!' He sounded angry, violently angry, and Harry felt a rush of adrenalin. 'You told them all about Hogsmeade, you bastard. It was because of you those Aurors were there waiting for us!' A rustle and a hoarse noise that seemed to come from a third man, someone who sounded to be in pain. 'Hurts, does it? Being betrayed by your own kind?' His voice sounded strained as though lifting a heavy weight. 'It's because of you the Dark Lord doesn't have the prophecy. And now it's destroyed.' There was a thud and a groan.

'Manners,' Rookwood chastised flatly. 'Don't forget the Dark Lord did have something of a soft spot for him. We should at least give him a sporting chance, eh?' There was a pause, then he seemed to be addressing the third man – the poisoned man – again. 'Don't let us keep you from fetching your antidote. Go on, what are you waiting for? Don't let us stop you.' But he couldn't seem to keep the growing amusement out of his voice, and very soon, both men were roaring with laughter.

It seemed to go on for several moments – and all at once, Harry felt a strange longing, a horrible thrill. It came from the pit of his stomach and spread until, as the laughter went on, he was certain he would burst in and join them. He couldn't hold back much longer, he was sure of it.

But at last it came to end, and he heard Rookwood speak again. 'Tick, tock, tick, tock,' he said in an amused voice, plainly realising now the entertainment to be had from adding to the poisoned man's pain. 'At this rate you won't make it in time. For Merlin's sake, I've known snails faster than this! No good just lying there, eh?'

'Go on –' A dull thud and their victim moaned again '– go and get your Antisanisee, Snape. What's keeping you?'

'No, no. Maybe he's just having a rest first. Where is it, Snape?' Rookwood was speaking now in a low, reassuring voice, as though trying to gain Snape's confidence. 'Tell me, and I'll go bring it for you.'

Snape didn't seem to be thinking straight. 'My … my off—' His voice was hoarse.

'What's that?' said the man who wasn't afraid to use his fists, his rough voice tinged with mock concern. 'Your office? At the school?'

'Merlin's beard!' exclaimed Rookwood with a false horror that sent a shiver of something through Harry that heightened his senses. 'We'll never be able to get through all those wards around the castle!'

His companion sounded despondent. 'Have to say, it does all seem pretty hopeless, Snape.'

There was a silence, then suddenly Harry heard them burst once more into loud guffaws. Snape groaned again at what sounded like the strike of a boot, and Rookwood resumed his death rattle.

As their laughter grated to a crescendo, something coursed through Harry – something electric, something that urged him more forcefully now into the room – not to help, but to take part in the torture. His heart pounded, and a blurry heat swept down over his eyes as he fought against the inexplicable desire to go in there, oblivious to giving himself away to these men – these – these _Death Eaters_. A fever throbbed behind his temples as he listened, his breaths coming in gasps now… He placed his hand on the door, gripping the edge of the wood with his long, pale fingers… Snape's groaning grew louder as the frequency of kicking increased… A new voice joined in the groaning… much closer… right next to him… His head was about to explode… and he felt himself fall, hitting the floor with a thud.

He quickly picked himself up, only to collapse into someone's arms.

'Watch out!'

'Oh not again!' said someone in the distance.

Harry tried to catch his breath. His scar ached and he felt like he'd been running miles. At the edge of awareness, he heard Dean grumbling about being woken for the second time in one night.

'Harry,' Ron's voice was right next to him. He felt himself being eased back onto something firm and soft.

'What –?'

'You fell out of bed. You OK?'

Harry felt his head. It hurt to touch. 'Yeah, I suppose. I fell by the door. I was –' The memory of the dream hit him. It all seemed so vivid, so real. He pressed his palms against the solid mattress.

'You sure you're OK?'

'I was - having a dream.' He described the house, the men (_Rookwood_ – hadn't he read about him escaping from Azkaban at the beginning of the year?), the laughter, the sound of them kicking Snape as he lay poisoned, his own hand on the door.

He held out his hand. It was shaking, but it was his own once more. He didn't dare acknowledge whose it had been just a few moments ago, even though his dry swallow told him his fears were very real.

He reached to his scar. The throbbing was easing. 'It was just a dream. I fell asleep thinking of Snape… It was just a stupid dream.' He met Ron's worried look.

'Yeah.' He made a show of yawning, and started to move toward his own bed. 'Just go back to sleep.'

'But what if it isn't?'

Ron turned back.

'What if – I mean, I didn't do any Occlumency practice last night.'

'So?'

'So it was the first time in months I hadn't done any before bed. And the only times I had these dreams before were when I wasn't clearing my mind at night properly.' _Before Snape's potion helped me to_, he added silently. 'What if – what if I'm seeing Voldemort's thoughts like Dumbledore said he might see mine? Supposing that house is where Voldemort is hiding out – and that poison's real and they use it on people there? And now they're using it on Snape?'

Ron stared at him sleepily. He blinked and said, 'I still reckon it was just a dream,' and began to turn away again.

'Well, there's one way to find out.' Harry got up and grabbed his dressing gown. He slipped it on over his pyjamas.

'Where are you going? McGonagall's still at St Mungo's, remember?'

Harry pulled the other sleeve on. 'I know.'

'You're going to Dumbledore?'

'I'm not going to bother him with a dream.'

'You just said it wasn't—!'

'Shh!' Harry glanced around as he put on his glasses. Neville made a troubled noise and shifted in his bed. Harry waited until he had settled, then whispered, 'If this antidote stuff's real, it's in Snape's office – he said so in my … dream or whatever it was. If it's there, I'll go tell Dumbledore. At least he might believe me if I can show him the antidote. If I can't find it, then it must have been just a dream, and I don't need to bother anyone.'

'Hang on,' said Ron as Harry moved past to the dormitory door. 'Don't you need to go to Snape's office to see?' When Harry didn't immediately answer, he stepped forward and seized his arm. 'What the bloody hell are you doing?' he whispered urgently. 'You can't just waltz into Snape's office at this time of the morning because of a dream!'

'So what d'you think I should do? Go back to bed and wait till breakfast to see if Snape's still alive?'

Ron looked tired and angry. He let go of his arm. 'Go to Dumbledore, then, if this dream's worrying you that much.'

'He doesn't need me bothering him with a dream. He's been through enough today.' He frowned. 'Yesterday.'

'And you haven't?'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Look. You've been up half the night. And after … you know … Sirius. You're not thinking straight.'

Harry stared, determination building. 'I get it. You think I just imagined seeing my dad tonight _too_, don't you?' He felt his chest tighten. 'I didn't imagine it. I'm not imagining things!'

'OK, OK.' Ron held up his hands and backed off a step. 'But this – this is _crazy_. For one thing, Snape probably keeps his office locked at night. How were you planning on getting in?'

He had a point. Snape wouldn't use ordinary locking spells. Especially after he had discovered potions ingredients were disappearing from his office. He had accused him of being the culprit last year. So how _was_ he supposed to… _Point._ Of course! He backtracked to his bed and quietly slid out his trunk.

'What're you doing now?'

Finding what he was looking for, Harry shoved it in his dressing-gown pocket and kicked the trunk back under the bed. He grabbed his wand and turned to the door.

'What—?'

'No time.' If this was real, there wasn't a moment to lose. First he had to find this antidote, then locate Dumbledore and persuade him it hadn't been a dream. He left Ron staring after him.

The corridors were just as quiet as they had been earlier when he had come down here. When had that been? Not more than an hour ago, he guessed. Morning was still setting in. But this time he was in his pyjamas instead of his school robes, and when he reached the dungeons, he drew his dressing gown tight against the cold.

He crept up to Snape's office – _for the second time tonight; Ron's right, maybe I _am_ going mad_ – and listened at the door. This time there was no sound inside… He listened a moment longer, to be certain. Still nothing.

Then he heard a soft tread behind him. He whirled round.

'Hey,' whispered Ron in a restrained cry, backing off from the tip of his wand.

Harry let out a deep sigh of relief. 'What are you doing here?'

'Well, if you're dead set on doing this suicide mission… Well, someone's got to look out for you, haven't they?' He paused awkwardly. 'I'm not doing this for _him_,' he added, jabbing a finger toward Snape's door.

'OK. You keep watch, then.' He turned back gratefully to the door. He tried the handle just in case. Locked, of course. Pointing his wand, he whispered an _Alohomora_ charm. Still locked, as he had guessed it would be.

'So how _are_ you planning on getting in there?'

Harry brought out of his pocket what he'd stowed there earlier from the trunk. 'Sirius's knife.' He gazed at the metal as it glinted in the low torchlight. Grasping it firmly, he positioned the blade and slid it down the side of the door. Then he pocketed it and tried the handle again.

This time it opened straight away, a rush of cold air sending their shadows dancing around them. They peered into the dark office. 'We'll need some light,' said Harry, edging the door wider.

'This is such a bad idea.' Ron sounded far from thrilled he had found a way in. 'Let's go find a teacher.'

'Ron, this is about Snape and…' Harry lowered his voice, looking around the Slytherin corridor '…and Voldemort. We can't trust anyone except Order members.' He squinted into the pitch-black room and cast a _Lumos_ spell so that dull candlelight crept over the walls. He pushed the door wide and stepped forward.

He had never noticed before just how many jars, bottles and vials Snape kept in this place. As he scanned the rows upon rows – some three or four deep – along the many shelves, and the cabinets, cupboards and drawers around the room, he realised the full weight of the task ahead of him. He crossed to the nearest shelf. Some of the bottles weren't even labelled.

'Ron?'

'What?' he whispered from the doorway.

'I think this is going to take both of us.' He heard Ron's soft footsteps following him inside. 'You're going to have to help. I can't do this on my own. We don't have much time –'

'– _if_ this is real.' Ron didn't look too happy about the prospect of ransacking Snape's office. Harry understood his doubts. But this dream had been too weird, too … _coincidental_.

'_If_ it's real,' Harry conceded, 'it's going to take me too long to search through this lot on my own.'

'That's why we should get help first, don't you think?'

'No, that's exactly why we shouldn't. It'll only slow us down having to explain it. And we're here now – if this Antisanisee stuff isn't here, I promise we'll just go back to bed and no one needs to be bothered. OK?' He waited for Ron to nod his agreement, then turned and took in the room. 'Right. You go check that wall, and I'll start looking through this side.'

With a heavy sigh, Ron turned to the shelves opposite. 'What was the name of that stuff again?'

'Antisanisee,' said Harry slowly.

'An-ti-san-ee-see. How's it spelt?'

'I dunno. Just tell me if you come across anything that sounds close.'

After a few moments of fruitlessly searching through stacks of bottled roots, eyes, claws and various other body parts, to his relief Harry realised he could skip an entire section full only of potions ingredients. He told Ron to look for something that was an actual potion – probably a liquid – but not to discount anything solid either.

Several shelves later, his head was spinning with the names of the potions he had searched through. And the intense focus on finding that particular potion, with its unfamiliar name, wasn't helping matters.

Finally he had reached the back of the room, but there had been no sign of anything resembling the antidote on any of the shelves. 'Anything?' he asked Ron. He heard a sigh by the pool of candlelight across the room.

'Nothing.'

'Keep looking. I'll start checking the cupboards.'

'What about that?'

'What?'

Ron shone his wand on a corner beyond Harry at the back of the room. 'That – that thing on the wall.'

Harry looked at the dark wooden cabinet. He had nearly missed it; it was only about two foot square, halfway up the wall, shrinking into an alcove at the end of a shelf.

He trained his own wandlight onto the cabinet and stepped up to it.

From across the room, there was the renewed sound of scraping and clinking as Ron returned to moving bottles aside.

Harry peered at the old, dark wood. There didn't seem to be a handle, and he tried to prise the cabinet open with his fingers. 'It's locked.' He whispered an _Alohomora_, just on the off chance – but of course the door refused to shift.

Clearly, this was just another task for Sirius's knife.

Once he had slid the blade down, he grabbed the cabinet door and pulled.

And pulled again.

'It won't budge.' He drew the knife down the side of the cabinet once more and yanked again. 'I don't get it.' He let the door go and stared at it. 'Snape must be using something even stronger for this.'

'I thought that knife was supposed to open any lock.'

'It is.' While Harry stared at the locked door – which seemed to glare blankly back, coldly and rigidly, just like its owner – a thought suddenly occurred to him. He leaned forward and peered more closely at the door, focusing his light on it. 'Any _magical_ lock.' Sure enough, there, on one side, was a small hole.

'But… What?'

'Maybe … maybe the knife won't open non-magical locks.'

'What d'you mean, non-magical locks?'

'There's a keyhole here.'

'A keyhole? But why would Snape use an uncharmed lock?'

'The knife might have unlocked a spell, but we still need a key.' The more he thought about it, the more confident he felt, with these extra layers of security, that this cabinet housed something important. Hopefully, that meant the antidote.

He turned and peered around the room. His gaze landed on Snape's hefty desk by Ron. 'Search the drawers. There's got to be a key to this somewhere.' He stepped toward a small set of drawers beneath a shelf he had just searched.

'He might have it on him.'

'Maybe. But what choice do we have? We might find the antidote in one of these drawers anyway.'

'I'd suggest blasting it open. But it is Snape's.'

'We might have to if we don't find anything soon.' He pushed away all doubts and focused on the job at hand. 'Right. So I'll look here –' He pulled open the top drawer '– and you search the desk.'

'Bloody hell,' said Ron as he yanked open a stiff drawer crammed with parchment, 'what if he comes back and finds us here?' The sound of rifled parchment drifted across. 'You do realise we're dead?'

'So is Snape if this is real.' Inside Harry's drawer there was an assortment of old quills, corroded stirring rods – apparently eaten by some sort of acid – bits of roots of something, and various unrecognisable odds and ends that he tried not to think about too much as he rummaged through them.

'And since when did you ever bother about Snape?' Ron froze. 'Please don't tell me this is to do with your dad.'

Harry's fingers slid across a congealing mass of something at the back of the drawer. He wiped the slime down his dressing gown. Probably discarded potions ingredients. He hoped. 'What?'

'It is, isn't it?' Ron was staring across at him. 'You're just doing this because Snape's like … working with him.'

'Look, if this stuff's here and we don't find it in time, the biggest thing we'll have to worry about is explaining to Dumbledore how we knew exactly what was going on but didn't do anything.'

Ron snorted. 'I'd call this doing a lot,' he muttered, tossing down a heap of papers. 'Shit.' Parchment spilled onto the floor. He made a grab for an inkpot, but too late. A pool of red was consuming what was left on the desk. He cast a cleaning spell. 'Merlin – please tell me this parchment was blank to start with.'

'Never mind those. Just carry on searching.'

'Even if we save the git's life he's never gonna let us live when he sees all this.' He tried to salvage some papers, separating them from the mess. 'I hope to Merlin I'm still fast asleep in my bed and this is all just some horrible nightmare. I mean, what the hell am I doing? Putting my neck on the line just because you had a _dream_!' He tugged open another drawer. 'Huh.'

'What?'

Ron groped inside. He pulled out a long, dull object.

'A key!' Harry charged over. This had to be it! He took it to the cabinet. To his relief, it fit the lock perfectly. He pulled the door open.

Inside were two small shelves, with just enough room for a few bottles on each and three below on the cabinet's floor. Their labels proclaimed bizarre names he was sure he had never come across before – either in a dream or in a book. The two above were equally unfamiliar. Raising his wandlight to the top shelf, two bottles shone back. One glistened silvery, its wispy contents swirling gently within. It wasn't labelled, but he recognised it immediately.

'What's that?' asked Ron over his shoulder.

'It looks like a memory. Or a thought. Like you'd use with a Pensieve.'

'A memory? Why would Snape put any of his memories in there?'

Harry didn't know either. Perhaps something from his Occlumency lessons? But why a locked cabinet in the middle of the night? Perhaps he was trying to keep something from Voldemort. Voldemort… He snapped his gaze away from the mesmerising bottle. Its companion on its left was labelled, and its name jumped out at him.

It was real! The dream had been real! 'Antisanisee. This must be it!' It was a dark, oppressive-looking liquid. Whereas the memory next to it glimmered like an intricate chain of a billion dust motes, this seemed to suck in and consume the light from his wand. Only the glass surrounding it reflected anything back.

'Great,' said Ron, sounding more relieved than overjoyed. 'Now let's get out of here before anyone finds us.'

Harry couldn't agree more. He reached out to the antidote.

'Wait!'

Flushed, Harry spun around. 'What is it?' He shone his wand on the office door, his heart racing. It was still closed as Ron had left it. Calming himself, he trained his light on Ron. 'What the he—?'

But his words fell silently from his mouth as he saw what Ron was holding aloft from the desk. 'It –' His throat was tight. The silver material shone back. It was still with the brown paper he had carefully wrapped it in. He was stunned for a moment. Then, 'He didn't give it to him,' he said quietly, incredulously.

'Well, I don't want to say I told you so… What a git.' Ron's voice was taut. 'Still want to help him?'

Above the Invisibility Cloak, Ron's face was red and furious, his frown deep. Harry couldn't think. He turned away, back to the open cabinet.

Did Snape have any intention of ever giving his father his Cloak?

He closed his eyes. It didn't matter right now. The dream was real. Voldemort had poisoned Snape. Here was the proof, right in front of him.

But didn't Snape deserve it? Hadn't he needled Sirius into leaving Grimmauld Place, all the way to his death in Hogsmeade?

The happiness Harry had felt with Voldemort as Snape lay dying swelled inside him again, making him want to retch. No; this was Voldemort's work. Not even Snape deserved to die like this. Not at Voldemort's hand.

'I'm not going to just stand by and let Voldemort kill anyone else if I can help it.' He took some reassurance from how confident his words sounded. He held his breath and reached for the dark liquid. The glass, heavy in his hand, was ice cold. 'Right.' He gripped it tightly. 'Let's go find someone. Hopefully Dumble… Dum…' He suddenly felt dizzy, unsure.

He touched his burning scar. Was he really having second thoughts?

He felt hot and sick. He gripped the freezing glass tighter.

Ron was stepping round the desk. 'What—?'

But the room was spinning faster and faster as Harry suddenly recognised that feeling… that horrible feeling as his stomach lurched, his belly button tugging suddenly forward. And the last thing he heard – right after a terrified Ron yelling his name – was the clatter of his wand as it slipped to the floor.


	18. He's Lying

_**18. He's lying**_

The next thing Harry heard as his name ebbed into the distance and the pulling sensation finally stopped was a familiar harsh voice, one he had heard only that night.

'Well, well, well.'

He spun around. Rookwood's sneer was surrounded by pockmarked skin, and his hair looked just as greasy as in his picture in the _Prophet_.

Rookwood heaved himself from beside the door opposite where he had been leaning. 'Wasn't so sure you'd turn up. But turn up you have.' His lips curled again. He produced his wand, and Harry took a step back. 'Wand. Now.'

Harry answered automatically, still in a daze. 'I – I don't have it.' He looked to the floor. He had heard it fall… But it was not here.

Rookwood leaned toward him. 'Defenceless, eh?' he sneered, disbelieving, his eyes raking over Harry, who suddenly felt vulnerable, strangely stupid, stood here in his pyjamas and dressing gown, as though this was some nightmarish pyjama party. With Death Eaters.

He felt some odd compulsion to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, his nightmare come true.

Rookwood strode forward then and stuck his wandtip against his throat. With his free hand, he plucked something from Harry's. Instant warmth bit into palm. He caught a glimpse of the black liquid before Rookwood Vanished it. It was the antidote.

Or was it? It had brought him here, as a Portkey… Was it even a real potion?

His heart pounded. He stood helplessly as Rookwood searched roughly through his pockets, wand at his throat. _Oh, God._ If that potion had been a Portkey, where the hell was he now? He glanced around – and felt what blood was left in his head drain away.

It was the same room from his dreams.

He gazed about him, fascinated by the details now brought to life. The greying wallpaper hung off in damp patches all around, and the old window was boarded over just as he remembered, bare bricks showing through gaps in the wood.

He looked up then, Rookwood's wand hard against his neck – and for the first time saw the source of the light that barely reached across the room. A naked bulb hung from the high ceiling. Electric. He stared into its feeble light. It was as though the sight of it proved this was real, this was not just another dream. And his overriding thought at that moment was how odd, how completely insane, it was for Voldemort to be using Muggle electricity.

Rookwood laughed the horrible thin laugh he knew from the last dream. 'Thought you'd feel at home with that,' he said, jerking his head upward. 'Don't you like it?' His smirk suddenly vanished. 'Remember to say thank you.'

Rookwood's hot breath on his face made him cringe, assaulting him with alcohol and a hint of stale meat. But then Rookwood straightened, and Harry noticed something he could not recall from his many dreams of this place. Some of the smell lingered, and it wasn't just from Rookwood. The room itself was rank. Its mouldy stench was strong, musty, and it reminded him of his old room in the cupboard under the stairs. Only this was a hundred times worse. It crept into his throat and down, seeking to empty his stomach.

Rookwood took a step back. 'Nice of you to come unarmed.' He flicked the collar of his dressing gown. 'But you could have at least got dressed up for us.' His sneer spread across his scarred face slowly, deliberately, making sure that Harry saw just how much he was enjoying himself. He stepped back to the door, treading in the dirt of the bare floorboards, his wand now pointing again at Harry's chest. 'I don't have to use the Body Bind on you, do I?' His lips curled as Harry remained rooted to the spot. 'Didn't think so. Won't be long. Don't go anywhere, now.'

The door banged shut, leaving him stood alone in the bleak, damp room, with the only sounds Rookwood's receding footsteps and his own laboured breathing. He forced himself to snap out of the trance-like fear that had descended and ventured forward to the door.

It was horrible how closely it resembled the dreams. He was stepping out of the light toward the door again, just as he had done before, just one more time in so many. He felt his legs buckle. No! He was not going to give in.

He mastered the last few steps and grabbed the grimy handle. He had not heard Rookwood turn a key. _Please let it be open._ But he knew it was stupid to expect him not to have used locking magic, and unlike all those times in the dreams, the door stayed shut under his shaking hand.

What the hell was he going to do now?

_Breathe._

He circled the small room, searching the walls, trying the boarding at the bricked-over window, even whispering spells at the door, hoping something might work without his wand. Of course everything was warded. There was no way out. They had created the Portkey to bring him to this room – they had made sure it would be the most secure room in the building.

He positioned himself by the wall so that he would be behind the door when someone came. It might give him some kind of advantage over them. It was something, at least.

He had to do _something_.

But all he could do was wait.

_Breathe._ Someone would come for him – his dad – or Snape.

But if that potion had been a Portkey, what if Snape had planted it in his office to lure him here?

He took another breath. His dad, then. Yes, his dad would come help him. His chest swelled with hope, his breaths coming a little easier. Of course his dad would be here. As soon as he found out, he would be here.

But the dawning optimism was already being snuffed out. A dark mist was descending. Hope was drowning in a blackening fog.

The electric light dimmed.

Then he heard his father's voice.

But the despair filling him only seemed to grow stronger.

_'Run!'_ James was shouting. _'…Harry…'_

Harry tried to claw his way out of the anguish smothering him – because his father was here, just as he knew he would be. He was here for him!

But then came the sound of high-pitched laughter, and another voice took over, one that was more forceful. _'Bow to death, Harry…'_

As Voldemort's words drifted away as quickly as they had appeared, and as the dark veil of hopelessness suddenly lifted, Harry knew then that his father was not outside the door. It had simply been his only memory of him, from the day his mother had died for him. It had been a voice from the past, not one from his rescuer. The dangling light had regained its glow, but too late to prevent him recognising the familiar chill brought by a Dementor. Had they put one outside to guard him?

It seemed to have stopped exploring, feeding, but he felt the anguish slide back in as his last hope was snatched away. Anguish this time without his father's voice.

The solitary bulb looked down mockingly as he waited. Whether for a Death Eater or Voldemort himself, he was beyond caring. All he wanted now was for the Dementor outside to leave him alone.

But he did not have long to wait.

It seemed only several minutes had passed when the sound of heavy boots outside made him straighten from where he had begun to slump against the wall. It was more than one set. This was not James come to get him out. But the thing that spoke of danger the most was the growing discomfort in his scar. They were drawing nearer. He readied himself behind the door. He had no idea what he was going to do. Try to overpower the first one, get his wand… But then what?

They came to a halt, and the door was flung open. The tip of a wand came into view. He made a grab for it.

'_Expelliarmus_!'

The room flickered, dark, light, and the wand was gone. Something was jabbing into his chest. The Death Eater returned his companion's wand. Both were masked. They urged him back. He was at the wall when the door closed. The two Death Eaters parted.

'Silly boy. What did you really hope to accomplish stealing Avery's wand?'

Harry stared at the hooded face, gaunt and pale. Voldemort's red eyes narrowed almost to slits as he exhaled with a nasally, grisly-sounding sneer.

'Be more careful next time, Avery.'

'Yes, Master.' Avery bowed his head.

The red eyes turned back to Harry. 'So nice of you to join us, Harry Potter. And without your wand this time.' Harry felt his gaze burn into him, studying him. 'Careless,' he scolded softly, like a parent reproaching a child, and Harry felt a shot of fear, recalling the graveyard, Voldemort preying on him then, promising him death, and now here he was completely defenceless.

'I hope you did not find it too difficult to find my Portkey?' said Voldemort. 'I did instruct Severus to keep it safe, ready to hand. He did not make it too difficult for you, did he?' He gave another laugh when Harry did not answer. 'Stubborn. Just like your father.' His eyes flamed. 'Stubborn to the end.'

A burst of anger coursed through Harry. He remembered what Voldemort had said at the graveyard about his father's death; the very reason Harry had got up to fight him in the face of certain death. 'You lied,' he breathed before he could stop himself. 'You lied about my father!'

Voldemort laughed, slit-like nostrils dilating. 'I admit I have kept certain truths from you. Indeed I have. But all that is rectified now, isn't it? No hard feelings?' He laughed again.

Harry felt a wave of revulsion through the agony of his scar. He had kept his father from him all these years, and now he was mocking him with it.

'Master,' grated Rookwood's masked voice. Avery lifted his head. 'I beg to know, how did you bring the boy here, what clever scheme did you use?'

'Ah,' said Voldemort, sounding pleased to have been asked, 'Potter here knows. The boy did most of the work for me. He brought himself here. I merely provided him with the … impetus, the encouragement.' He took a step forward, and Harry's scar burst open in fresh torment. 'Don't you want to tell them, Harry?' he said softly. 'You know how I made the Portkey?'

Harry gritted his teeth, concentrating on his breathing. He would not play along, he would not let him know how much pain he felt.

'How quickly you forget.' Voldemort came closer. 'We share blood, you and I.' He reached out. Harry jerked his face from the cold touch. But his scar was on fire, he could not bear this agony much longer… He squeezed his jaw tighter, carving his fingernails into his palms… He would not give him the satisfaction.

'I used your – _our_ blood – to weave the necessary magic into the bottle encasing the potion. The potion itself was merely an antidote, one I – sometimes – have use for. On contact, the magic responds, explores the new heat, infuses with it, insinuates itself in, toward its source. It is moulded to your blood. Your, and only your, touch would activate the Portkey.' His mouth curled at his own cunning. 'But it is not the only use of your blood I found, is it, Harry? Blood ties. They are strong, aren't they? I find myself relying on them more and more. Yes. In spite of everything, your sentimentality remains dependable to the end.' His lipless mouth curled still further, and Harry tried hard not to show his growing revulsion. 'Severus was most willing to aid me in my little scheme. Although it was necessary to keep certain details from him.'

Snape. He should have known Snape must have been involved in this somehow. He _had_ planted the Portkey where he would find it! And to think he had actually begun to trust him!

Voldemort gave a horrid bark of laughter. 'I see your anger. Yes. Did you, perhaps, believe your father would somehow have survived?'

Harry felt as though the breath had been knocked out of him. No – he was lying – his dad was not dead. He was just saying it to try to upset him, to see him defeated.

But Voldemort laughed again. 'I had no use for your father. Preserving my spy at Hogwarts was my primary concern.'

His face twisted with satisfaction, but Harry did not see it. What was he saying? James was pretending to be Voldemort's spy within the Order, not Hogwarts. But Harry did not dare say anything.

'Ah,' he heard Voldemort say over the sound of blood rushing through his ears, 'but it was your misplaced faith in your father's memory that I relied upon to bring you to me. Did Severus play his role so well?' He gave a broad, low smile that pulled his pale skin taut, and Harry thought he would be sick as he stared at the mask-like face only a foot from his own while his scar burned angrily and his heart thumped at his teeming thoughts about his father.

His dad was not dead. Voldemort was lying. He had to be. But Snape… what did Snape have to do with this? Surely Snape had not been lying that James was alive? Why _would_ he have? He had no reason to. It made no sense.

But what Voldemort was saying made no sense. He had seen a vision of Snape being poisoned… That was why he was here. What did his father's memory have to do with Snape? In the midst of pounding confusion, he decided to persuade some more out of Voldemort. He was not going to die believing his dad was dead after all if he was really out there. 'My father's not dead,' he breathed. 'You're lying.'

Voldemort laughed. 'I'm afraid Severus played his role only _too_ well.' The two Death Eaters joined their master in his mocking laughter. 'No, Harry, there really is nothing left of your father. I made sure there would not be before I cast my spell. If it is any consolation, your father did indeed stand up bravely against me as I took his soul and disposed of his empty body.'

The breath shuddered from Harry's throat. _What?_ What was Voldemort _saying_? Bands of steel were tightening around his chest. 'What did – what did you do with him?'

Red eyes narrowed to the tiniest of slits as Harry struggled to breathe. 'Perhaps, out of necessity in playing the doting father, Severus chose to keep the gory details from you? Well, then, of course, I shall be only too happy to fill in the gaps for you now.' He paused to enjoy Harry's distress. 'I could not allow him to get away with taking the life of my spy at Hogwarts. It seemed only proper that he pay his due. Severus was too valuable to me – I needed someone to tell me what the old man was up to. It so happened I had been researching old Dark Magic around the soul, and I knew just the spell. Quickly, I cast it, before Severus's body and mind were too far gone. Your father, of course, had sent Severus's soul the way of all mortal souls moments before with his curse. But I soon filled the vacancy – aptly – with the soul of his murderer. And my faithful servant regained his rightful place at my side, with no ill effects.'

Lips curled. 'Perhaps he will come by here before I am done with you. I'm sure I can allow him that. Lord Voldemort always rewards his helpers, and Severus has certainly earned his reward today.'

Harry stared at the snake-like face twisting into a terrible smile.

_He's lying. Voldemort's lying._

Thoughts swarmed, few of them making any sense. Uppermost was that he needed to keep his nerve. His father would never have let Voldemort's lies get to him. And that was what Voldemort was trying to do. He was trying to paint such a vicious picture of his father's death, trying to make him believe that his life for the past fifteen years had been a lie. None of this was true.

_He's lying._

But in straining to control the thoughts, one by one, images, fragments of words, broke through, blinding his focus, stopping his breath.

Snape in the library, snatching back the book on souls…

_He's lying._

Lupin's visits to the castle…

_He's lying._

Snape handing him the potion for his headaches…

_He's lying._

Draco's mocking tone in the corridor…

_He's lying._

Prongs racing through the moonlight…

_No. He's lying!_ 'You're a LIAR!'

'Enough of this,' said Voldemort, and he idly raised his wand arm. '_Crucio_.'

Pain, like a thousand knives, coursed through him. When he thought it would never stop, he found himself on the floor, each breath coming heavily and hard. Quickly he stood, using the wall at his back only briefly to keep his balance.

'Now,' said Voldemort, once Harry was facing him again, 'time to get what I brought you here for.'

He pointed his wand, and Harry readied himself for more. If he was going to die, he would die like his father, fighting to the end.

'_Legilimens_.'

The light seemed to flicker, then a stream of images was rushing through his head. Ron was holding up the Invisibility Cloak … Hagrid's window was misted over from his breath … In the corridor Luna was talking about exams … Dumbledore was telling him of Sirius's death … students gathered in the common room were whispering rumours of an attack at Hogsmeade … then suddenly he was back in Dumbledore's office and he was telling him of Sirius's death once more.

Voldemort was going to make him relive this moment over and over again.

But then Dumbledore was showing him the Pensieve … the image of Trelawney was forming over it … she was muttering in the odd, detached voice… _'…born to those who…'_

_No!_ At once he knew what Voldemort was looking for, and he concentrated all his energies on the Occlumency he had been practising all year. Her voice was fading, Voldemort's face becoming clearer – _'…and either must…'_ – until the fury channelled down the wand at Harry's head burst through the vision.

He let out a loud noise of frustration, and the Death Eaters on each side cowered back.

'_Crucio_!'

Again, Harry found himself on the floor, with the sound of screaming in his ears. Again, as soon as the agony had stopped, he picked himself up and faced Voldemort.

'_Legilimens_!'

But this time Harry was ready. No sooner had Trelawney begun her recital, he had forced Voldemort from his mind.

Enraged, Voldemort cast another Cruciatus Curse, and afterwards Harry retook his position for a third time. But the Legilimency spell did not come. Voldemort was studying him calmly.

'I see someone has been teaching you how to conceal your thoughts. The old man, perhaps? A pity. But no amount of Occlumency is a match for Lord Voldemort's powers.' The thin scarlet eyes glittered. 'We shall see how resistant you are after a few hours' contemplation of your predicament. Take all the time you need. You shall soon understand that it does not pay to defy me. Your parents attempted the same and were quickly destroyed. Do not follow in their footsteps, Harry.' He lingered a moment, his gaze resting on Harry almost fondly. Then he reached out, and Harry's scar split open in agony.

'I always knew you would find your way back to me,' Voldemort said softly, and with a show of reluctance he turned. At the door, he glanced up. The electric light shone weakly on his disgust. 'Channelled here especially for you – from an unsuspecting household nearby, I believe. Do forgive us if our spells occasionally interfere with the crude Muggle science.' And with that, he swept out, the masked Death Eaters close behind.

Harry was alone again in the small room.

A spider scuttled up the opposite wall. It reached a tear in the greying wallpaper and fell a little way. Harry watched it catch itself on its thread and dangle, legs searching for a foothold. He would not die here, alone in this cramped, dismal place that reminded him of his old room under the stairs.

But worse than that was the memory of Voldemort's terrible words.

_No!_ He closed his eyes and shut it out. None of it was true! Voldemort was just trying to make him vulnerable, distract him, trick him into opening up his mind so he could get to the prophecy.

He moved to the wall with the bricked-up window. Taking a deep breath, he lowered himself to sit cross-legged beneath it. The peeling door opposite stared back.

Voldemort was not going to get to him that easily. If he wanted the prophecy, he was going to have to work damned hard for it.

Focusing on each breath, he descended inwards, and worked on clearing his mind of every single thought exactly as he had done so many times before over the last several months.


	19. Escape

_**19. Escape**_

Something was intruding into the emptiness of his mind, piercing the delicate shell he had constructed. The fear inside, the ferocious determination, were struggling to break free. He let them pass through without disturbance. But now a sound joined them, and it was growing in urgency.

'Potter.'

Its hard tone was shattering. It jolted Harry into consciousness. His head pounded him awake, and he blinked at the stark white face staring back. He looked right through its hollow eyes to the room beyond; the tilted face was uncanny in its fixity, its strange detachment. It appeared suspended in mid air.

Harry's waking brain told him it was a Death Eater mask at the same time he saw the pale fingers curled round it. His gaze moved up the dark-sleeved arm while he held his breath and felt his way up the wall at his spine.

Snape's face was contorted with hate.

'Potter.'

'You—' Harry's voice cracked with lack of water. Snape grabbed his collar and forced him back against the crumbling plaster.

The hooked nose was mere inches from his, the greasy hair rats' tails around the pale neck, and the black eyes burning cold fury. Harry could not see his father anywhere. Voldemort must think him an idiot if he thought for one second he would believe his evil lies. Snape's mouth was a snarl, just like he had seen so many times before.

There was a click from the door, and suddenly Snape's wand was pressing into his throat.

Snape's head turned as a rush of cool air brought with it a familiar voice.

'Ah. I thought I'd find you here.'

'Lucius?' The voice was horribly calm. Harry writhed under the wand. Snape's blind grip tightened, knuckles driving into his neck. Harry's throat burned as he coughed.

Malfoy came into view. 'The Dark Lord wants to speak with you.' Then, amused, 'Is the boy in his pyjamas?'

The eyes returned, crept down then back up, an ugly crease between the brows. 'So it would seem.'

'In a rush were we?' Malfoy's face was shining in obvious entertainment, and Harry did not know which of the two men he hated more. 'Eager to save someone?' He stepped closer. 'But as you can see, your – ah – father is quite safe and well.'

Snape's eyes snapped to Harry's. The air between was charged with the silent exchange of revulsion, Harry showing him that he did not believe it, would never believe it. He wasn't afraid to meet Snape's hate, because his father was not there.

But Harry had not communicated it strongly enough: Snape's attention fell easily to Malfoy. His tone indicated nothing. 'The Dark Lord has spoken to you?'

'Ah, yes.' Malfoy darkened; he appeared reluctant to elaborate. Harry recalled Dumbledore, in his office, telling him it had been Lucius who had been in charge of the mission to get the Prophecy from the Ministry. It did not look like Voldemort had been very happy with his failure.

Snape's eyes were on him again. 'I will return once I've given proper thought to your punishment for destroying my office.' The pressure on his neck eased, but Snape kept his wand at Harry's throat as though he were a threat. Then he released his grip and stepped back, eyes and wand fixed on him as if Harry might slip away somehow if he blinked, or perhaps planning what he would do to him later.

'We have a few minutes,' said Malfoy.

Snape paused near the door.

'Haven't you only just come?' said Malfoy, his rushed words hinting at an unwillingness to leave. 'I don't see any injuries on the boy. He doesn't look to be in any real distress. Not yet anyway,' he said, sounding very much like he was eager for a diversion from thoughts of his own punishment.

Down the line of Snape's wand, Harry returned the continued stare just as unswervingly. He watched the bloodless lips barely move. 'He is the Dark Lord's.'

'But he gave you specific permission to come by here. Aren't you impatient to teach your student one last lesson?'

There was a long silence. 'Malfoy,' he said, still not bothering to move his cold gaze from Harry, 'are you expecting me to deduct House points as well from the boy?'

For an instant, Malfoy seemed unsure what to say. His uncertainty provoked the same in Harry, though he tried not to let Snape see it. Despite it being something that Snape was fond of doing at the school, it was absurd that he would threaten to deduct points here. If he had meant it mockingly, he should be sneering. But he wasn't. He was deadly serious.

And there was something else, something about his words. There was something familiar about them… Harry had an image of Snape in the school library, and Draco beside him, grinning.

'If it makes you feel any better,' Malfoy said.

Snape did not reply. But his expression made a subtle shift. It was angry now, Harry saw, and there was no doubt the anger was directed right at him. 'I hope your scream is loud enough for the Dark Lord to hear, Potter.' He pointed his wand. '_Crucio_.'

A sickening moment seemed to pass during which the electric light dimmed before the force hit Harry in the chest and he felt the wall come up behind him. His ribs throbbed under the growing pressure, and though it was taking longer than he remembered, he knew what was coming next.

But then time must have slowed down further, somehow. He could almost believe he was simply trapped between some heavy weight and the unrelenting wall. It was hard to breath. But there was no sign of the fire, not even any of the pain, except the terror of the suffocating feeling and the expectation and the ache of the dull force on his chest as it seemed to ebb and flow rather than explode into something more. He saw Malfoy edge toward Snape as they watched.

It was Malfoy's look that triggered something in Harry. The two men were both waiting, but when Malfoy glanced at Snape with increasingly obvious bewilderment and Snape steeled his angry gaze further at Harry and the weight pressing on him throbbed again, sharper this time so that it sent prickles down his arms, he suddenly knew what to do.

He screamed.

He kept it up for as long as the curse held him against the wall, balling his fists and scrunching his face. And when finally he felt it release him, he slid himself to the floor and hunkered down against the exposed brickwork, panting after the effort.

'Did you see that, Severus?' From the floor, he saw Malfoy take a step forward. 'Extraordinary. I've witnessed the boy's resistance to the Imperius Curse, but I've never heard of anything like this with the Cruciatus.' The wonder in his voice hardened. 'He must be dealt with swiftly.'

'I agree completely,' Snape replied. Harry heard the door open, but Malfoy didn't move. 'The Dark Lord is waiting.'

There was a rustle of robes as Malfoy came closer. Harry did not dare ease up on his breathing. Not yet.

'Lucius.'

'One moment.' Malfoy was right next to him.

It took all his strength not to react as the man leaned in. His breath brushed the side of his face as Malfoy whispered in his ear, 'When you see your mother, be sure to let her know where her husband is.'

Harry couldn't help it. His breath faltered.

'Lucius.' Snape's voice was sterner now.

Malfoy got up and they left. Harry listened to his compounded breaths in the fathomless nook between wall and floor. It stifled the thoughts that were sure to take hold in the silence.

It was his father that had stopped the curse having its full effect.

He shook against the cold stone but did not move away. His father had not let it hurt him. He willed the thought to calm him, to give him the comfort it should. But he could not stop shivering.

-x-

Harry jerked upright, his heart slamming. He screwed his eyes against the blue-white flash that filled the room.

Snape's voice snarled: 'Wormtail.'

Pettigrew still had a look of surprise, freshly transformed from the rat.

He pinned him beside the door opposite Harry. 'What are you up to?'

Wormtail whimpered. Harry watched them while he tried to gauge what had just happened as his pulse slowed. He must have drifted to sleep after Snape and Malfoy's earlier visit. Then he remembered the nightmares. His mother's scream, Cedric Diggory's empty eyes. The Dementor had been back outside the door, feeding on his negligence at re-Occluding his mind. How many hours had passed this time? He could still feel Lucius's warm breath on his cheek.

'The Dark Lord bade me watch the boy,' said Wormtail.

'Really?'

Harry felt the cold again as he thought of the rat's small black eyes shining out from a dark corner as he'd slept.

'So. You've been lurking here all this time?'

'Oh yes.' Beyond Snape's back, Wormtail sounded to be grinning. 'I heard everything.'

'What do you mean?' There was an urgency in Snape's voice as he lowered it. Harry strained to hear, but caught only Wormtail's fractured protests. 'Does the Dark Lord know you were present?' said Snape. 'Then tell me what you heard him say.' This was accompanied by a violent shake as Wormtail's whining escalated.

'He talked of… He told…' There was another shake, and Wormtail said, loudly, to bring an end to it, 'James, the boy's father.'

Harry stared at Snape's motionless back. A heavy moment passed.

Then something seemed to be said, and overhead the light bulb flickered. It glinted bluish-green. Snape's wand was raised. 'Go to the Dark Lord.'

There was a streak of silver from Wormtail's hand as he went to the door. Harry barely managed to gather his thoughts before it slammed shut. Snape was striding toward him. 'Put it on.'

He blinked at the cloak in Snape's hand.

His throat was sore. 'Why?'

'Because I'm telling you to – now do it.'

Snape's voice was cold and demanded action to counter its iciness. Harry reached up and took the cloak. Close to, he began to recognise it – the Invisibility Cloak. His father's Invisibility Cloak.

It was then he noticed the point of Snape's wand, still raised. He was directing it at him almost casually, as though only half aware he was doing it. His heart gave a protesting thump as he realised that the last spell Snape had cast on Wormtail had been a Memory Charm.

There was a noise outside the room, and Snape twisted his head to listen. His wand drifted with him to one side, and Harry snatched away his gaze, turning his head down to his father's Cloak, which felt increasingly slippery in his hands.

'What are you waiting for, Potter?'

Snape was at the door, already pulling it open, the empty corridor sliding into view. Harry felt his mind cloud over as he looked back at him, the Cloak soft in his hands. Was his father helping him to escape? What was Snape doing here?

'Are you ill, boy? Then do as you are told and do it now.'

Stiffly, he got to his feet. He pulled the Cloak over his head and disappeared. He felt strangely detached from himself, like an observer to his own escape as he followed Snape's barked orders and trailed after him down dim corridors. They passed Death Eaters that Harry recognised but who could not see him. It was only his own hot breath in the heavy Cloak that reassured him of his presence.

Then even that was taken away from him at last. They had gone down some steps. Snape felt the air and found him easily. He balled the Cloak and stuffed it inside his robes. They were outside – the night air was chilly through the thin material of Harry's night clothes. It felt refreshing after the small room. He shivered.

'This way. Quickly.'

He did as he was told, but he moved too fast across the rocky ground.

'Be careful!' Snape had him by the shoulder. He was frowning as he held him at arm's length to stop him knocking into him again. His voice was low. 'Can't you follow a simple direction?' Snape looked around, and Harry noticed they were in a wooded area. 'Just a little further.' Snape's urgent whisper did not seem, as he moved his head, a cloud of breath following him, intended for Harry.

Snape was moving again, treading carefully over twigs that voiced their annoyance with a snap. 'Here.' He had his wand out; Harry saw its dark profile as he swung it around. He reached Harry's gaze, and Harry sensed the building anger. 'Get over here now.'

Snape caught him more firmly this time, then pulled him closer, too close, and then they were spinning, held together by the force.

Harry caught his breath as he was flung away. The sky was more open suddenly. Snape was striding toward towering barred gates. He sent something out from his wand that left a white streak as it shot off across the school grounds on the other side.

'Wait here. Do not move.'

It was only when Snape had already swept past him that Harry managed to turn. 'Where are you going?' He heard the fear in his voice and felt embarrassed as Snape, his wand readied again for Disapparation, stared back.

He seemed to sneer in the dark. 'Don't worry, Potter, someone will be along soon. Stay near the gates.' There was something else Harry wanted to say, but before he could think what it was, Snape had gone. The empty _pop_ left him to the teasing wind.

As the minutes passed, it seemed to draw out and on his tiredness.

He turned away. A few lights were on in the distant Castle, and he wondered if they were looking for him. Perhaps, he thought, he ought to do something. He put a hand to the gates, but they were locked, and he had no wand. He watched the tiny lights flicker, unable to think in the heaviness of the night, despite the cold and his thirst, until he became aware of another light bobbing across the grounds to the right.

Someone was coming. The lantern they carried was high in their hand, so that Harry knew that the broad figure bearing its small glow could only be Hagrid. A wave of weariness rolled through him. In his exhaustion, he thought he saw a second light at Hagrid's feet, bigger but dimmer and white beneath the lantern's bright yellow, moving just ahead of Hagrid. But it disappeared when Harry blinked. His head was pounding, hot and heavy.

He rested it against cold metal and felt a sudden surge of anger. He wanted to prise the bars apart with his hands. The giant was always slow. Why was he taking so long?

Over the lurching thud of his heart, he heard Hagrid's voice call out, 'Who's there?' The lantern swung violently as he strode forward until, when he was several feet from the gates, he threw the yellow light across them. 'Harry!'

He was faintly aware of Hagrid telling him how worried they had all been, and asking him whether he was hurt, as the gates were unlocked and flung open. He had almost regained his voice, when a large, heavy coat was wrapped around his shoulders; he had no strength to fight its warmth and weight. Its hem dragged behind him over the ground through the drizzle that had begun as he let himself again be moved unseen along corridors of enquiring people, until at last he found himself sat looking at Fawkes preening on his perch.

-x-

The sun was smeared low across the brightening sky through the window of Hagrid's hut. The giant was out, unable to put off tending to the animals any longer, or perhaps eager to get away after Snape's unexpected entrance. Snape considered the school again. But the idea of Dumbledore so early in the day still didn't appeal, and no doubt the man would find him before he reached his own rooms.

He drank some more of the heavy tea from the equally heavy large cup. He would have to get back sooner or later. Funny how the prospect of that seemed less attractive than his return to the Dark Lord earlier. He had been angry, of course. Furious. Snape rubbed his arm, over the Dark Mark. Informing the Dark Lord that he had tried to find the boy had not eased his share of that fury. His sole consolation had been that Wormtail had taken the brunt of it for deserting his post and finding strange difficulties in remembering why.

But perhaps Dumbledore was not the worst thing awaiting him in the school. How could he give the boy detention ever again now? How could he bear it? He dug his fingers harder into the Dark Mark until it hurt again.

There was a sound outside. The door opened, and he expected it to be Hagrid returning. But there in the doorway, inevitably, was Dumbledore.

'Ah, Severus. Everyone has been on the lookout for you.'

His exaggeration made Snape feel queasy again.

'I'm so glad to see you made it back to us in one piece.'

'Indeed. Here I am.'

Dumbledore took this in for a moment with an appraising look, which turned faintly grave. 'He doesn't suspect?'

Snape tried not to recall the Legilimency he had successfully endured in the midst of the climax of the Dark Lord's wrath. 'It appears I have special immunity since I was a part of his plan to lure Potter. Though the small detail of my being an unknowing participant didn't seem to concern him. His confidence in me remains unbreakable.'

'Excellent.'

Snape looked wearily at the blue eyes that shone on regardless.

'And Harry is recovering well.'

'Truly happy news.'

Dumbledore observed him over his glasses. 'Make no mistake, Severus. Your quick actions tonight averted almost certain disaster.'

'If the boy had kept up his Occlumency practice as he was told, none of it would have been necessary.'

'The same could be said for the Portkey. An antidote, was it?'

Snape sneered. 'I should have checked the bottle itself. But how was I to know it wouldn't be safe from Potter's meddling?'

'Of course you weren't. But no one is to blame. Voldemort believed he was playing him perfectly. But he underestimated him, as he always does.' He had a thoughtful look, but Snape was too tired to make any attempt to forestall the inescapable waxing adulation for Potter. 'He sent the boy an image of what he believed him to already know,' said Dumbledore. 'But Harry was unaware of its full significance; he did not see, as he was supposed to, his father in danger. Yet still he followed.'

'Straight into my office uninvited.'

'I think you are missing the point, Severus.'

'No, Dumbledore, I understand. I have always understood. The boy follows blindly. He has no subtleties. Like his father.'

The old man sighed. 'I see you're not to be convinced.' His disappointment seemed to throw a shadow over him where he stood in the doorway, and Hagrid's face appeared overhead. The giant grinned when he saw him.

'Well, now the party's pickin up. Yeh'll have a cuppa, Headmaster?'

Snape got up before Dumbledore, smiling ominously, had the chance to reply. 'I need something stronger.' He brushed past them and headed to the castle. His maltreated office had still to be checked over, and even the thought of that was more calming right now. He had endured a glimpse of it earlier as he had retrieved the Invisibility Cloak. At least Flintoff's memory appeared untouched.

His legs sank into the dewy grass as he strode across the grounds beneath the rising sun. He had been attending to Dumbledore and the Dark Lord all day and through the night, and it occurred to him he had not been to bed since the Hogsmeade attack two days ago. He had never needed sleep so badly. And he had never been so certain he would find little of it today.


	20. It's Not as if It Can Be Put Right

_**20. It's not as if it can be put right, is it?**_

There were two good things about exams that Harry could not have foreseen.

The first, and most immediate, benefit was that the only times he saw Snape for any long period were in the Great Hall, at meals. And then Harry kept his attention fixed on his own plate. Ron and Hermione put his distraction and frequent quiet moods down to what had happened when he had touched the Portkey – Ron in particular was still feeling guilty about the whole thing. In fact, she and Ron had said very little to each other since she had got upset at Ron's suggestion that she was more concerned that Harry had lost a full day of studying. Harry thought he had said it more as a joke, to deflect from his own bad feelings, but no one had felt like laughing, least of all Harry.

The other advantage of the final few days of revision was the bubble of escape they offered. He found his friends' concern useful; they didn't question his insistence on heading to the library alone after every meal to study. It was a relief if the spot tucked away in shelving at the back was free. With the Charms book opened at the same page in front of him and the unused quill and blank parchment arranged next to it, there once again was the permission to stop thinking, to stop having to pretend to everyone that all was normal.

Even Occlumency had its benefits, it seemed. He was finding it stupidly easy to file away thoughts and feelings. It was just a matter of disowning them; no one could say they were his if he never voiced them. Perhaps everything was normal after all.

He had almost begun to believe it himself, and then just before dinner Lupin stopped him on his way back to the dormitory. It was not until Lupin had shepherded him into an empty classroom, unwilling to talk in the busy corridor, that it all threatened to come back to him, so that he felt again that strange, numb fear.

'You must have a lot of questions,' said Lupin after he had shut the door and spent a moment simply looking at him. 'I'm afraid I don't have all the answers. I'm sure Dumbledore has told you more than I could.'

'I have to study. For exams.' Harry stared at the door. It was the first time they had talked alone since Sirius's death, when Lupin had turned into the wolf on the school grounds, but there was only one subject that sat the heaviest between them, and he felt no urge to have it brought up.

'Yes, of course.' Although Lupin gave the impression of disappointment, it was the indication of relief that made Harry all the more eager to get away. 'Good,' said Lupin. 'It's good you have that to take your mind off everything that's happened.' He added, 'When you need to talk, I'm only at the other end of the Floo.'

'Thanks.' Harry made for the door. 'But if I want the truth I'll find someone else.'

'Wait, Harry.' Lupin stepped in front of him. He put out a hand to Harry's shoulder, but Harry moved away. 'I know it must be difficult,' said Lupin. 'I know it's been hard for me to understand. I really am sorry you had to find out this way. I didn't want it. I hope you can believe that. I'd planned on telling you after – well, after you saw your father's Animagus. But now you know everything.' He searched him with a pained look. 'You mustn't blame yourself.'

'For what?' Harry had been listening with a kind of growing resentment, and now Lupin's concluding words brought home the anger he felt. 'Maybe it'd be better if you didn't keep hanging around the castle any more.' Lupin looked stung, but Harry needed to give voice to his emotions. 'You've been here a lot this year, and it's not really helping, is it? I mean him – Snape.'

'Snape?'

'Yeah,' he said, surprised to have heard himself say it when he did not think he had meant Snape at all. 'He doesn't need the constant reminding, does he?' Neither do I, he thought, I don't need reminding you knew all this time. He looked away. It was the implication, he realised, that's what he'd meant – that Lupin had been treating Snape as someone he wasn't.

'Perhaps you're right,' Lupin said, with a measured hesitancy, as though it were some type of revelation. 'I never really thought about it that way…' He focused on Harry and seemed to consider him as though for the first time. But Harry could only look back with a helpless sort of bitterness. 'You can't act like he's…' He wasn't ready to say it. 'Because he's not, is he? So there's no point pretending. It's not as if it can be put right, is it?'

'No,' said Lupin sadly. 'No, it can't be put right.'

Harry was unsure whether Lupin was thinking of James or just his own lies again, which only made him more angry. 'And you told him the password to the Map.'

Lupin looked surprised.

'I heard him. He said it that night when you turned into the wolf. He used it to find you.'

'I didn't. I wouldn't.' Lupin paused. 'It must have been Wormtail.'

Harry did not know whether to believe him. How could he trust Lupin again?

There was an awkward silence as Lupin became lost in thought, perhaps in memories, and then he seemed as anxious as Harry to leave the subject. 'How's your exam work going?' he asked with a practised brightness.

Harry shrugged. 'Fine.'

'Good. That's good.' His decisive smile was obviously meant to reassure. He looked for a long moment at Harry, who got the usual feeling that Lupin was not seeing him but his old friend. In the past that look of warm familiarity had offered him a sense of belonging. But he felt none of that simple, childish happiness now. And he knew he would never do so again. He could not help thinking: Was this how Lupin had been looking at Snape all this year?

Lupin was reaching for the door. 'Keep up your work, Harry. It will help.'

Harry did not watch him leave.

-x-

Remus found Snape in the staffroom leafing through a copy of _The Practical Potioneer_ journal. In a chair nearby, Professor Binns was snoring softly. Snape looked up at his approach with the same critical expression with which he had been reading.

'Could I have a word, Severus?' he whispered, but Professor Binns was already waking up with a contented sigh as though he had been sleeping for a century.

'Oh, don't mind me, young man,' Binns said on noticing him. 'I'm sure I have a class to teach.' He got up and dusted down his ghostly robes. 'Now –' he peered around with a wrinkled frown '– where are my notes?' He seemed to remember. 'Ah!' And with that, he flew through the wall opposite.

'Extraordinary,' said Snape, looking at the spot where Binns had disappeared, 'how some people insist on loitering long after they've ceased to be of use.' He turned a sour expression on Remus.

'In fact, that's what I wanted to talk to you about.'

'It's nearly the end of school, Lupin.' He resumed reading. 'I hope you weren't planning on bothering me over summer?'

'If I knew where you lived.'

Snape's head jerked up. Remus had said it in jest, but now, under Snape's searing glare, he felt ridiculously guilty. 'Of course not.' He sat down in the chair opposite.

Harry had helped him to see what he had known for a long time but had been reluctant to admit. He and Snape would never be close friends. Yet that did not mean he and James were enemies.

James did not live on through Snape. He knew that now. In fact, he felt foolish he might have once believed it might be so. Sirius had gone, and James had gone long before him. If he manifested, it was only some of his magic, and that alone did not make a wizard. It was best to hold on to the memories he had of James and not maintain these false hopes.

'Please don't be too hard on Harry next year, will you?'

Snape flipped a page with a snort. 'I shall treat Potter the same as I always have.' He looked up with a sneer. 'Don't worry – he won't be in my class anyway.'

'Don't write him off just yet.'

Snape made another derisive noise and went back to reading. 'I thought you mentioned you were bringing me some happy news?'

'Yes.' Remus sighed and glanced around the room. He noticed the old wardrobe was still in the same corner where he had used it to teach Harry's class a few years ago. It was the first time most of them had encountered a Boggart. He remembered when he had been a student himself and he had come across one down in a secret passageway beneath the Castle – it had been one of the rare times Sirius had expressed reservations about using the Marauders Map. Everyone else had been eager to go back to see if they could banish the Boggart. Remus never did find out what it had changed into for Sirius, or indeed if it had on that occasion, though he did get the impression it was something to do with Sirius's vanity and he had simply wanted them all to think he was fearless.

'Did you ask Peter for the password to the Map?'

Snape looked up with a frown. 'What on earth are you babbling about?'

'He must have told you.'

'I have no interest in what the rat has to say.'

'And yet – you could only know it from him.'

He shut the journal with a thwack. 'If you're accusing me of being in cahoots with that filthy rat, why don't you say it?'

'I'm not accusing you of anything. I just want to know why you asked him for the password.'

'Password?' He looked ready to storm out. 'You know very well I do not know that password.'

'Then how did you find me on the night of the last full moon? You used the Map.'

Snape stared. 'It was already active.' He reopened the journal with a frown. 'Or Potter said it.'

'Harry heard you say it.'

'And you believe him.'

'Why should he lie about that?'

'How should I know? You have a better understanding of how minds like his work.'

'He isn't lying – just like he wasn't about seeing his father's Animagus form. He has no reason to lie. What reason do you have?'

'I don't think I care for your tone, Lupin.' He had lowered his voice to that deceptive tranquillity he so enjoyed using – the calm that threatened a gale. 'I do not know the password to your precious Marauders Map. I have no interest in finding it out. I fail to see how I can put it in simpler terms that you will understand.'

Remus could not think why Harry would say he had heard if he had not. 'Harry heard you with his own ears. I don't see how else I can put that.'

'Then the boy is confused.'

'Really? I wonder why that is?'

Snape threw him a filthy look. But there was something else there too – a certain vulnerability – and Remus thought again about what Harry had said.

It was time to let go. Perhaps he had been using this as well as keeping an eye on Sirius as excuses to avoid Nymphadora.

But there was only one other person who had known the Map's password, and now he found himself having to consider the possibility. Perhaps Snape was not aware he had used it; perhaps – perhaps he had found the password in his subconscious when he had needed it. Could it simply have been easier to find because he had been deliberately accessing James's magic recently?

'It's probably because of that useless Animagus form,' said Snape as though he knew what he was thinking. He was tearing through the pages on his knee. 'I knew it was a liability. But that can easily be remedied.' He gave him an ugly look. 'Don't worry, I won't be using his magic any more. I suggest you keep up your potions, Lupin. Nobody will be dashing to your rescue again.'

Remus swallowed his angry grief. 'That's all right.' He found a smile. 'I've decided to look for another source for the Wolfsbane Potion if I need some. I've bothered you enough with it.'

Snape narrowed his eyes, but let his words stand.

'In any case, Dumbledore wants me to do something for the Order. It will likely mean going without the Potion for a while.' Snape appeared singularly unconcerned. 'So it seems Dumbledore still finds a use for me.'

Snape thinned his lips. 'Believe me, Lupin, you're not special in that regard.'

'Well – we're all fighting for the same cause.'

Snape's eyes seemed to cloud over as his gaze returned to the journal. 'For the same outcome.'

Remus worried about Harry. He had been in the hands of Voldemort for longer than ever this year, and he could only imagine what he had gone through. Harry had been angry at him earlier, and Remus could hardly blame him. He had been seeking to make Snape happy all this time, thinking Harry, safely unaware of the truth, had not needed his attention. 'Harry believes I told you the password.'

Snape turned a page. 'Or the rat. He is certainly slippery enough.' He looked up and across at the wall as though seeing something there. 'Perhaps it would be prudent to keep an eye on him. I wonder… I might ask the Dark Lord for an assistant.'

There was a calculating gleam in his eyes which seemed to bring him to life. It was as far from James as it was possible to imagine.

'I wouldn't want Peter as a helper.'

Snape turned to him with a look he recognised. It was one he gave to students he considered particularly slow. 'An assistant – not a friend. It pays to keep one's enemies close.'

'I'm not your enemy, Severus.'

He simply sneered and returned to reading. But perhaps it was the very fact Snape wanted him gone that showed he did not regard him with animosity. Perhaps it was Snape's destiny to be so alone. Remus found his life hard to imagine.

He got up. He had much to do this summer in preparation – it would not be easy to bring the werewolves over to their side – and maybe it was good he no longer had these distractions. 'I hope you haven't forgotten Harry tried to save your life recently.'

'Don't bother, Lupin. Dumbledore has already given me the usual rhetoric.'

'Well. Then I suppose there's nothing more to say.'

Snape evidently agreed.

At the door, Remus heard a page turn. He glanced back. Snape was peering at the journal with the same critical eye as when he had found him.

-x-

When Harry had first seen the Great Hall laid out just as it had been in Snape's memory, his heart had lurched. He had hardly been able to tear his eyes away from the row near the front where his father had been sitting for his OWL exam, doodling on his parchment, oblivious to the unimaginable fate that lay ahead of him, the younger Snape just a few tables away.

The first week of OWLs went better than Harry had thought they might, especially Defence Against the Dark Arts; casting the Patronus as a bonus point had given him a first hint of belief.

But then the second Monday arrived all too soon. In the months before, he had been looking forward to the Potions exam least of all, conscious he needed to do well if he was to become an Auror. Yet now there was the additional thought of spending so long in the same room as Snape.

And just as he had dreaded, the written exam in the morning had been almost suffocating. The words had sat in front of him on the page meaninglessly, and he did not even care about the furious scribbling going on all around him.

He was only able to think about Snape, overseeing them from behind a book at the front, occasionally getting up from his table to walk around the room, living and breathing at the expense of his father. It was an unbearable thought. Harry tried not to look, but there he was passing by, looking critically down his hooked nose at people's efforts. He was sure he had felt his icy gaze run over him more than once.

Although in the afternoon there was an unusually relaxed atmosphere when making potions, because of Snape's absence, Harry was just as taut as he had been in the morning. The echoes of Snape's footsteps were still ringing in his ears as he stirred some gillyweed into his potion, thinking vaguely it was meant to be turning green by now.

How many times had he imagined Snape dead or drowning in his own cauldron? The irony was that if he really had died it would have set his father's soul free. Free to join Harry's mother, and to be with Sirius, where he ought to be. And Hermione had always made him and Ron feel guilty about wishing it.

But his father was not free. It was worse than being stuck here as a ghost – he was alive but his life was not real. His memories, his loves, were not his. Snape did not love anyone or anything anyway; he was suffused with hate and he was poisoning his father's soul with it.

If Snape's life had really been in danger, and Harry had known the truth about him like Voldemort had wanted, he would not have tried to save him. He would have let his father's soul be freed instead. Hadn't Voldemort realised that? Was he really so sick he thought he could ever accept Snape in place of his father?

Dumbledore hadn't seen it this way. He had tried to persuade him that Snape had suffered through Voldemort's spell as well as James. Harry found this hard to believe. Snape would be dead if it had not been for Voldemort. Dead, as he should be.

But maybe James was trying to get through? Snape had tried to Cruciate him and it had not worked. And how had he known the password to the Map? And Prongs. He had glimpsed him – he was real.

He stopped stirring – but only because the mixture was now so thick and useless it had become a strain to carry on. He had forgotten what it was they had been instructed to make in the first place. The greenish-grey lumps in his cauldron did not resemble anything he could think of.

'Step away from your cauldrons, please,' called out the invigilator next to the large, empty, hourglass at the front. 'The examination is over.'

Harry made an effort at scraping together a sample for his flask. He glanced around the room. Even Neville looked content with the green liquid he was corking.

The rest of the week's exams were almost as dreadful. In Care of Magical Creatures he pointed out exactly the right diet with which to poison a sick unicorn, and in Divination, which he had been bound to fail anyway and would now bet all his gold on failing, he told his examiner she would fall madly in love with a Dementor and they would have many soulless children.

When Friday morning came, he wanted desperately to feel the same excitement and relief everyone else was feeling at the end of exams. But what he wanted the most was for school to end. Maybe if he had done really badly he would not be coming back next year. Right now, he did not care much either way.

At breakfast, there was a commotion in the Great Hall when McGonagall returned from St Mungo's after the Hogsmeade attack. He felt a sense of normality returning with her when she briskly instructed everyone to go back to their seats – which only made the small niggle when he remembered his exams blossom in his stomach into a very real dread.

It hung around him all that day like a Grim, but he did not want to spoil his friends' eagerness in enjoying the last few days of school. By the evening he was exhausted from the effort of keeping up with their restless chatter about summer and what the next school year might bring.

The following morning he tried to sleep late, but it was another sunny day and Ron practically pulled him from his bed all the way outside. After lunch by the lake he caved in and agreed to fetch his broomstick for a fly. On his way to the common room he almost ran into McGonagall carrying a large pile of parchments.

'Potter, there is some concern about your exams,' she said after his apology. She shifted the papers in her arms. 'Of course, we won't know the full results until later, but naturally we are aware you have had some – distractions – immediately prior.'

He guessed by distractions she meant Sirius. And being kidnapped by Voldemort. She didn't know about the biggest distraction.

'Some of the professors may want to talk to you about that. There is a possibility you may have to retake some during the summer.'

His heart fell, initially. But then he thought that at least it would be time away from the Dursleys. He nodded glumly.

'Professor Snape would like a word first.'

He looked at her desperately. 'Snape?'

She frowned at him and turned down the corridor with her stack of papers, the topmost parchments threatening to slide to the floor. 'Professor Snape.'

'Now?'

'Now is as good a time as any, Potter. See me in my office afterwards,' she called out as she bustled away.

He jumped as Ron came bounding up behind him. 'Got your broomstick?' He was breathless with excitement.

'I'm just about –'

Hermione stepped out of the common room. 'Oh, you're here. Thought I might join you boys.' She had her broomstick in her hand. 'We hardly ever go flying together. Make a change to let my hair down – get some fresh air.' She looked affronted at Ron's lack of response. 'Don't mind, do you?'

'Er, no. Course not.' Ron didn't seem as enthusiastic as he had been earlier.

They both turned tense looks on Harry, who could not help feeling, not for the first time, that he was in the middle of something. 'Maybe you two go on ahead.' If he had to see Snape, he felt that he needed to get it over with. He watched his friends' concern. They hadn't questioned his quiet anxiety while they had all been cramming and worrying over their OWLs – but now they were finally over, he was supposed to have replaced that with joy and relief. 'I might have to retake some exams.'

'No.' Ron looked horrified.

'That's awful,' said Hermione. She chewed a lip. 'But I suppose they're taking account of – everything that's happened. It's only fair.'

'Nothing's been decided yet. McGonagall just warned me.' He avoided Ron's look of dismay. 'Snape wants to see me.'

Hermione nodded. 'NEWT Potions is important if you want to be an Auror.' Harry could see she knew he had done particularly badly in Potions. In fact, she had seemed to be very quick at accepting that it had been suggested he retake some exams, making him wonder whether she'd had a quiet word about him with McGonagall.

'What about –' Ron glanced at the Fat Lady's portrait, out of which a crowd was pushing its way in giddy relief. 'You're not seeing him now?'

'Look, I'll catch you up later.'

'Are you sure?' said Hermione. 'It'd do you good.'

'I don't really feel like it right now, anyway.'

She still looked worried, but after a moment of valiantly trying to ignore Ron's fidgeting, she said, 'Well, we've got a few more days left. We'll make a day of it, just the three of us.'

Harry tried to take comfort from her encouraging smile. 'Yeah, I'd really like that.'

'Don't forget to remind him you saved his life,' called Ron over his shoulder as he and Hermione were consumed in the throng.


	21. Complete Agreement

_**21. Complete agreement**_

'Of course, I was against giving you special treatment.'

Snape was pacing somewhere around the edge of the shadows. Harry stared ahead in his seat; he did not want to look. He could not bear the thought of meeting those cold, lifeless eyes.

'All my students are set to equal or better their averages over the year. All, that is, but one.' There was a silence, and Harry knew he was watching to see the effect. 'Naturally, an "Outstanding" was always going to be beyond you. But even by your low standards you have done appallingly.' He paused. 'You remember our remedial Potions, Potter?'

Harry stared at a pickled newt. 'Yes.'

'Good. Because so do others.'

Of course. Snape was just thinking of his own neck as usual. People – a word that could only loosely be applied to Slytherins – would start to question what they had been doing shut away in Snape's office all this year if he failed Potions. Harry could have laughed.

Draco – and everyone else – believed he had got away from Voldemort using a Portkey. It would take just a few words for them to discover the truth. Maybe his memory too. If Draco didn't believe him, he could borrow Dumbledore's Pensieve, use that to prove it. Then Draco would tell his father, and he would tell Voldemort, and then…

He knew he would never do it, of course. Not to Draco, or any other Slytherin – the thought of their delight made his stomach turn. But it felt good to imagine himself having the courage.

'What your grades are in your other subjects is no concern of mine,' Snape said. 'But if there is to be the slightest chance of your being in my Potions class next year, you will have to ask yourself whether your summer is worth the sacrifice.'

What sacrifice? Now that Sirius was gone, there would only ever be the Dursleys.

'Who knows, if you actually make an effort this time you might even scrape something approaching a decent grade.' He came to a stop near his desk. 'What do you think, Potter? Do you think you can manage to make the effort?'

'Yes,' Harry said stiffly.

'And so that my summer isn't completely wasted, you can save me the job of straightening my stores – it seems some person or persons wantonly put much of it out of place recently. Everything will need reordering to make sure no potions are spoilt with incorrect doses.'

Reflexively, Harry turned his head, but he managed to stop it so that his glare landed on a spot one inch from Snape's face. 'I was trying to save your life.'

He didn't think even Snape would snort at that, but he did. 'Funny – I was under the impression it was I who ended up saving you. Wanting to take all the glory?'

'No. I don't think I need to. I don't think I did anything wrong.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning that maybe – maybe I'll tell Dumbledore you tried to Cruciate me.'

Harry looked then, and felt a thrill on seeing Snape's stare. So this was what it was like to find triumph in hate.

'You would lie to the Headmaster, Potter?'

'Lie? I don't need to lie about anything. I heard you.'

'Of course you heard. As did Lucius Malfoy. Who naturally expected nothing less than the Cruciatus.' His dark eyes narrowed. 'Surely even someone as dim as you would recognise an Unforgivable? I used a different curse.'

'No you didn't. I didn't hear any other one.'

'It was nonverbal. And harmless. More's the pity, perhaps.'

Harry's heart was thumping. 'But I heard—'

'It is possible to say one thing and mean another. You should know that, Potter. It goes hand in hand with arrogance.'

Harry said nothing. His skin was getting clammy though the room was as cold as ever.

'Did you think you had defeated the Cruciatus?' Snape's lip quivered. 'Or perhaps – perhaps you thought me deficient?' His eyes glistened. 'Is that what you thought?' Harry watched, captivated by his anger as it smouldered then ebbed. It seemed to take an age to reach the soft light of realisation. 'Oh, I see.' The scorn was unmistakable. But it was the cruel amusement suggested by the sneer that made Harry feel sick. He tore his gaze away.

'Perhaps you are confused on some other points? Then let me help you. Whom do you think it was who ran risks for your neck?'

Harry stared at a table leg. He didn't think his stomach could take another dead thing in a jar.

'Is it plain who saved your neck?'

'Yes.'

'Remind me whom it was.'

'It was you. Professor.'

'Correct, Potter. It was I.'

He had a sudden urge to run, to get out of the airless room and just keep on running. He didn't want to be in Snape's debt. He would rather Snape had left him there. Why couldn't he have just left him to Voldemort if he hated him so much? 'I was only there because I was trying to help you. Doesn't that count for anything?' He looked into his sneer. 'I wish I hadn't. I wish you'd really been dying and I hadn't.'

'So.' Snape's nostrils flared. 'This is the thanks I receive. My efforts were indeed wasted.'

'You don't deserve to be alive. You shouldn't be. You should have died years ago.'

'Deserve? I'll tell you what I deserve.' He bent down so that he was inches from his face and spat: 'I deserve some respect for saving your ungrateful skin!' He savoured Harry's frustration for a moment, then straightened. 'But of course you want all the credit, don't you, Potter? Naturally.'

'I didn't do it for you – I did it because I don't want Voldemort to win.'

Snape looked ready to snarl at Voldemort's name, but then a gleam appeared in his eyes, and his mouth curled higher so that he was showing a row of yellow teeth. 'On that, Potter, we are in complete agreement.'

Harry looked at his coldness. He wondered if this is what he himself would have to be like to be able to kill Voldemort. Would he have to think nothing of his friends' lives, only set their worth, like they were weapons easily discarded, by one sole objective – the end of Voldemort? Wouldn't that make him just as bad as Voldemort? And then wouldn't Voldemort have won just the same?

'Now we understand each other – shall we return to the reason I'm giving up my day?'

Harry remembered then. He was going to be an Auror. He was going to save people, not have to watch them die. He didn't care what Snape thought – every life was worth saving if you could.

But first he would have to endure another two years of Snape.

'I've discussed it with Dumbledore this morning, and he agrees that to wait for your final results would be fruitless. He is certain the examiners will be only too happy to give the celebrated Harry Potter another chance. Let's hope you're able to focus your mind this time.'

'Let's hope no one keeps feeding me lies this time.' He hadn't meant for it to sound so bitter. But he was glad he had said it. He was relieved. Snape had a sour look. Harry willed him to say something, to express his hate again so that he could hate him back, but Snape's lips stayed frustratingly pressed together in their hard, downturned line.

'That was not without good reason,' he said at last. 'As you discovered. I'm sure Dumbledore has explained it all to you. Or do you need it spelling out again?'

'You mean Voldemort's big plan? But he got me anyway, didn't he?' He stared at Snape's indifference, disbelieving it, furious at it for changing only at the mention of Voldemort's name. 'He tortured me, did you know? He tortured me for the Prophecy.'

Something darted across Snape's face, and Harry wondered if he had finally made an impression. But it was gone in an instant, and a curious closed expression took its place. 'What do you know about that?'

'What – the Prophecy? Dumbledore told me.' He realised then he shouldn't have mentioned it – maybe Snape wasn't supposed to know.

Snape's eyes were boring into him. 'So. That was what he wanted all along. To take it from you.'

Harry felt an odd sensation as Snape stared. It was as though Snape wasn't really looking at him, or wasn't aware that he was. For a second he could see Snape's emotions, right there on the surface. It wasn't just anger. He could swear there was a touch of fear there too, or something similar, something that carried a suggestion of pain. Harry wanted to draw his gaze away, but found he couldn't.

Then Snape seemed to come back to himself. 'Dumbledore should not have told you.'

'Why not? It's about me.'

He thought Snape might start getting angry again, but instead he stayed silent, though his entire body was taut. Harry hoped he hadn't told Snape too much. He decided it would be safer not to say anything else.

To his surprise, Snape changed the subject for him. 'You will make sure you read everything that you should have read over this past year. And then you will report to me for a few days of practice.' He relaxed back into contempt. 'You can manage reading, can you, Potter?'

Harry glared as Snape turned to a pile of parchments on his desk. He felt he was about to dismiss him. But Harry hadn't finished with him yet. 'You know what I think? I think you were glad I did it, you were glad Voldemort got me. Because then you could prove yourself to Dumbledore. Get his trust. You should be thanking me.'

Snape's voice was a whisper. 'Thank you?' It would have been impossible for his stare to hold any more loathing. 'How very like your father.'

Harry shot out of his chair. 'DON'T you mention him again! You don't have the right!' His hands formed tight fists.

'How dare you raise your voice to me. Who do you think you are?'

'I'm the son of the man whose soul you have!'

They glared at each other for a long time. Harry shook with anger.

When Snape finally spoke it was in a quiet, threatening voice. His face was a horrible sallow colour. 'Apologise. Or get out.'

'Why should I apologise for something that's true?'

'Then get out of my office.'

Harry slammed the door behind him.

He punched the corridor wall opposite and leaned back to let the cool dungeon air calm him.

But as his heart slowed and his head cleared, the heavy realisation crept through: he had just thrown away all chance he had to be an Auror.

Did he really want to be in Snape's class next year anyway? He could not bear the thought of being in such proximity to the man day after day, listening to his insults and having to remind himself that it was not his father who hated him.

But then his father would not have wanted him to run away. What was a stupid class compared to his dad's bravery? That day at Godric's Hollow had to have been far worse than anyone had imagined. He had thought James had paid the ultimate price for protecting his family. Now Harry did not know what the ultimate price was any more. He took in a deep lungful of damp air. He should go back into Snape's office. He should demand Snape give him the opportunity to prove himself.

He should. But every cell in his body revolted against the idea.

He heard a click, and then as if it had read his thoughts the door flew open with a whoosh that made the torches around him flicker. Snape was standing in the doorway, appearing calmer. He observed him coolly, with a quiver of disdain. 'Have you decided that your future is worth taking seriously?'

Harry swallowed his pride and nodded.

'Pardon me?'

'Yes.'

'I don't think I heard you correctly.'

'Yes,' he said a little louder. 'Sir.'

'Better.' Snape stood away from the door. The pleasure he took in his contempt for Harry was tangible; it was like a repulsive force that had to be fought against just in order to walk past him and back into the room. When he heard the snap of the door closing behind him, Harry felt numb with the effort.

'You are to report back here at the beginning of the fifth week of summer. I think we will stick to the subject of Potions, don't you, Potter?' Snape gave him an ugly, forbidding look. 'Any questions?'

Harry thought. 'How – how am I going to get back to the Castle?'

'Perhaps Lupin will volunteer. Who knows? That's no concern of mine. Just make sure you're here.' He picked up a large parchment from his desk and handed it across. It was littered with names, titles and long lists of page numbers, all in Snape's cramped scrawl. Harry's heart sank as he saw the amount of reading he expected him to do in the next few weeks. He was sure some of the books he hadn't even heard of before.

He looked on coldly while Harry took it in. 'Anything else?'

The crisp parchment crackled as Harry rolled it shut. The pressure of the tight cylinder teased and tickled his palms, and the silliest thought popped into his head – didn't this mean he was in fact now doing remedial Potions after all? The world had gone mad. Remedial Potions for real? It was surreal, comical, like the ultimate irony to end the year. Like this was the punchline the whole year had been leading up to. With Snape at his side watching and waiting, it suddenly felt like one of the funniest things ever. But Snape's impatience was showing, and as Harry tried to focus on serious things instead, like whether there was anything else he needed to know before he left, his gaze wandered. It landed on the little cabinet on the wall where Voldemort's Portkey had been – where next to it he had seen what had appeared to be a bottled memory. The cabinet looked locked. He wondered if it was still there.

'Well?'

'Why do you keep a memory in there?'

Snape's tone was threatening. 'I thought we were sticking to Potions.'

'But you only took them out when you were teaching me Occlumency, didn't you? Why lock that one up?'

'Potter, I suggest—'

'I mean, I saw one—' He stopped himself, but it was too late, and he knew his guilt was showing.

'What did you see?' Snape said softly.

Harry stumbled over his words as he searched for something with which he might salvage the situation. Snape would almost certainly refuse to let him into his class next year if he found out he had gone into one of his memories in the Pensieve.

'Tell me what it was you saw.'

'I was just going to say…' He avoided Snape's gaze. 'I remember seeing you taking out your memories and putting them back. For Occlumency lessons.' His heart was racing in the silence that followed. Snape could surely hear it.

'You make a poor liar.'

'I'm not –' He turned from Snape's scrutinising eyes and felt himself redden. He couldn't do it. But it was only Snape – people lied to him all the time. So why couldn't he? It wasn't fair.

But Snape was never going to let it go. 'What did you see?'

'I didn't mean to. I just wanted – to – to know where he was.'

Snape turned paler than usual. 'You didn't touch that memory?'

'No.' He shook his head at the cabinet. 'Not that one.'

'What do you mean?'

He drew in a breath. There would be no going back after this. All he could do was tell the truth, and if Snape threw him out of his office again, that would be his decision. 'When you left me in here alone one day during Occlumency, I went into the Pensieve.'

Harry watched him in silence. At first Snape gave no indication that he had understood. But then Harry noticed his jaw twitch, and the spots of colour that had appeared on his face were deepening into red blotches.

'So.' His teeth were clenched so tightly the word came out as a hiss. 'Perhaps you would like to see that one too?'

Harry didn't know what to say. 'I –'

But Snape was already by the wall and unlocking the cabinet, first with his wand and then with the same key Harry had seen Ron fish out of the drawer in the dead of night what felt like months ago. 'Of course you do,' Snape was saying. 'After all, this will certainly help you to see where your dear father is.'

A horrible dread descended over Harry. It was as if it was suddenly obvious that this memory that Snape had hidden behind so many locks was the crux of everything that had happened this year – and perhaps beyond. He just didn't know how, didn't know if it held the answers – or a terrible glimpse that could never be taken back. Snape was bringing it out, placing it on the desk. Now he was fetching the Pensieve, using his wand to spool the memory out of the bottle and set it down into the bowl.

Harry watched, unable to move, as the silvery mass settled into the Pensieve.

'Well?' Snape demanded. 'Aren't you eager to see? Isn't this what you've wanted?'

Harry said nothing, and Snape stepped closer so that his fury was unmistakable. 'Isn't it what you want?' He was almost whispering now. 'Don't try to lie to me again.' Harry stayed silent; there was nothing he could say. 'Go ahead then. You remember how to do it?' Snape was daring him, but Harry was afraid to enter it on his own.

'Aren't you…?'

'I have no intention of going in there, Potter.' He shook his head slowly, as though Harry was simply too stupid to understand. 'No, Dumbledore was wrong about this – you will benefit more from it, I'm certain.'

Harry tried to comprehend this amid the tumult of emotions. 'I can't do it alone,' he heard himself quietly say.

Snape curled a quivering lip, and his face drained a little of its angry colour. 'Then I suppose I shall just have to destroy it.' He made as if to draw it back out of the Pensieve.

'No!'

Snape put back his wand. 'I knew it,' he said, with an audible sneer. 'I knew it's what you wanted.' He seized Harry's arm. 'But still you won't admit it.' His eyes blazed, and Harry's hand started to go numb as he tightened his grip on him. 'But you will. You will.'


	22. Not Snivellus

**_22. Not Snivellus_**

It was a cold night, and filthy leaves slid across the threshold into the hallway as the door flew open.

Snape remembered this. He remembered their muddy footprints on the clean path, his hammering heart, his hot breaths inside his mask warming him through the damp air. The curtain had twitched, the face of James Potter flashing at the window. There had been shouting upon realising the Fidelius Charm was broken. But there was nothing Potter could have done.

The Dark Lord was convinced others might be present, a protector sent by Dumbledore. His trust in Snape's new position at Hogwarts was already complete; he believed it was bearing fruit with gratifying speed. Snape remembered his own thankfulness at these first successes; he was getting used to lying to the Dark Lord. He remembered reading the note the Dark Lord had shown him in the shadowy street, and the words he already knew from Dumbledore, glad he hadn't been required to take the parchment into his shaking hands. But then he had watched as it was shown to Flintoff, a concession for devotional zeal, a reward for years in exile outside the Ministry's grasp, Flintoff pleased he would be a witness to this victory. Snape had hoped to be the only Death Eater there.

It had been Halloween, though he had barely noticed the Muggles' gaudy celebrations. He had thought nothing of the indistinct shouts shadowing through the cottage door before it had opened. He remembered the tight fear. No opportunity to warn Dumbledore. He remembered Potter point his wand, the flash of green as the Dark Lord crossed the threshold, he close behind, the brutal roar that he now saw had come from the Dark Lord.

But instead of Potter's body where he knew it had been, he watched himself fall to the floor.

'No!' the Dark Lord howled, his eyes blazing. He flicked his arm, and Potter's outstretched hands were empty, his wand smashing into the far wall. In the same second and without further movement, as though the Dark Lord had sent two spells together – such had been his power before he would become the creature he was – a crimson light slithered around Potter. It coiled around his waist and spread until it surrounded him head to foot in its creeping glow. It throbbed like blood, seeming at once to burn and hold him in place. The Dark Lord's nostrils flared. 'You will repay me for that, Potter.'

'So kill me.' Potter's voice was strained; he was fighting against something he did not know.

'Tempting. It's what you deserve, but no. You can still be of use.'

Potter made no reply, the Dark Lord's curse now making speech difficult.

'You will not rob me of my servant.' The Dark Lord savoured Potter's torment, watched the red-veiled pain of battle move through him. 'But the body needs a soul.'

Despite the spell's force, Potter glanced down. Lying still where he had fallen, Snape's younger self had become separated from the Death Eater's mask. 'Snivellus,' Potter breathed, and even through the Dark Lord's spell the loathing was unmistakable. His hate was so strong, even the curse seemed forgotten. And Snape saw a familiar expression, one he had thought he would never see again.

Potter looked pleased. He was dead, and Potter had been the one to kill him.

Triumph was settling over the man, that same filthy, arrogant triumph Snape knew so well, and the Dark Lord saw it and his loathing, and it amused him. 'It appears to be a fitting punishment after all, Flintoff.' He looked to Flintoff, and in that same instant Potter's eyes flicked to the staircase.

'Yes, My Lord.'

'I hope you will be happy in your new home.'

Something was dawning. Realisation or simple recognition of some unspeakable fate. It cost Potter to talk through the spell that held him. 'Not Snivellus.' Gasps, clawing at the air. 'Not Snivellus.' His eyes were alight with a fiery determination. 'Anyone but him.' And he wrung the last few words from his throat not with desperation, but with a heightened resolve. 'Kill me.'

The Dark Lord, who believed that there was nothing worse than death, dismissed this with a jerk of his wand. Potter's eyes widened in disbelief as the curse tightened around him.

It must have been over in a matter of seconds. But time seemed suspended as the shadow fell.

It moved between them unseen but felt, like a cloud passing over the earth. It was not possible that it was suddenly colder in the cramped hallway – it was only a memory and one lived by Flintoff at that – but Snape felt the chill of it. He felt Potter's vengeful soul torn from his body pass among them.

Only the Dark Lord remained unperturbed. With his wand he directed the lost soul and finished his terrible deed. 'Hurry now. I want to keep my Death Eater.'

Time began again. Potter dropped to the floor as the curse ended. Glasses fell. And Snape noticed that they were broken.

The Dark Lord was exhaling noisily. He was impatient.

Flintoff, for all his eagerness, was nervous, perhaps thinking back to Snape's warning of a guard. The eyes behind the mask were flicking about for something lurking unseen.

It was the movement at their feet that brought the skittish eyes to a stop.

Someone was exhaling – not the Dark Lord this time – and Snape realised it was him as he saw his younger self draw a hand across the floor, catching rotting leaves between fingers.

'Get up, Severus. You have work to do.'

Snape watched himself rise.

If Snape had seen much in his lifetime that had sent lesser men screaming their incompetence and inviting the Dark Lord to cast them forever from his side – or worse – here then was his own great test.

'You remember what you're to do, Severus?'

Something registered on the blank face, and Snape wondered, heart in his throat, whether his younger self did indeed remember everything that he was to do tonight.

The Dark Lord did not wait for an answer. He had other matters to attend to.

Snape looked back at himself, unable to tear his gaze away. He should be going up the stairs. It was why he had come, why he had worked so hard to gain the Dark Lord's confidence so that he could always stay near him. So why wasn't he moving? He was simply standing there, insensible, as though he had been placed under an Imperius Curse. Snape watched himself, horrified more at this than at witnessing his own death a moment ago. His incessant heart was hollowing out his chest.

He knew the thing in front of him could not remember why he was really here.

'Do something,' he heard himself say to his younger self, and as if beckoned from some nearby place of waiting, called out by this piteous voice, a tide of anger swept in to fill the emptiness in his chest. 'Get up those stairs and save her you FOOL!'

But he was as immovable as the memory, as the events. Snape felt a rawness that he had not felt in a long time.

'My Lord.' Flintoff was staring back at him, unsure what to do.

'Leave him,' the Dark Lord said. 'He will recover. Do not speak of this to anyone – I do not want Severus distracted.'

They moved off, and an unmistakeable sound pierced the silence. The baby's cry was suddenly stifled, and the Dark Lord looked up the stairs and smiled. 'Stay here. The child is mine.'

Snape remembered then. Across the hall the Potter boy was still standing by the pram at the wall, staring down at the floor where his father lay.

'Potter!'

The boy looked up – and at Snape's younger self. His face grew even whiter.

'POTTER!' Snape left his own side and started toward the boy. 'We're leaving.' He grabbed Potter's arm.

'Coming around, Snape?' Flintoff, who had taken off his mask, was at the window, holding the curtain aside. He was craning back to where Snape still stood senseless, but blinking now, confusion clouding his face as though he were straining to remember.

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.

'What,' he spoke. 'I don't –'

Flintoff stared with a mixture of curiosity and fear. 'You were out. He knocked you out.'

The younger Snape was looking down sightlessly at James Potter's body. Muffled voices could be heard somewhere above.

'I wish he'd get on with it.' Flintoff was peering out of the window again, his quick breaths betraying his anxiety.

'I don't remember.'

Flintoff looked back at him, and then it happened.

The boom was so loud the whole of the floor above had surely been destroyed. The air all around hummed, and through the window a wave of green lit up the night sky. The entire house convulsed; wood fell in splinters all around them through streams of dust. A chunk of masonry plunged harmlessly to the floor through Snape as he watched himself blink and slowly begin to register that something was happening, as though everything were on a delay.

'Get out!' Flintoff was yelling as plaster fell, coating his hair white. He shielded his head and blasted out the front door, which was cracking in its sagging frame. 'Snape! Run!'

Snape stared at himself staring at James Potter's body being rapidly covered in debris. 'Run,' he heard his younger self mutter. 'I'll hold him off.'

Flintoff yanked him through the door just as a large beam came crashing down, and Flintoff was already hurtling into the night.

-x-

Snape could not remember when the boy's arm must have slipped out of his hand. He wasn't holding it when they flew out of the Pensieve and landed in his office, Potter falling over a chair and he slamming into a shelf. He thought he had cut himself at first, then realised the liquid at his back was cold. He repaired the bottle before the contents leaked out completely.

He strode to the Pensieve. His breath misted the surface of the memory.

'You said –' Potter's stare was wild. 'You said "Run". You said –' Lips flailed, unable to form the words.

'It's your own fault, Potter.' Snape felt hot with fury. 'You should not have goaded me.'

But Potter wasn't listening; he was shaking his head. 'I wanted to.'

Snape bridled. He should have felt triumphant at the confession – but there was nothing about Potter's sickly demeanour that said the boy had really wanted any of it. Potter was lying; he was taunting him again. 'So you admit it?' Snape taunted him back. 'You goaded me into it?'

The boy looked back blankly.

'Say you wanted it. Dumbledore will know of this. The Headmaster will know the truth of you – your lies, your scheming—'

'I wanted to know the truth. I needed – I had to. Didn't you too?' His mouth stayed open as if he were gasping for breath.

Snape found himself matching it.

'Dumbledore wanted us to see,' said Potter. 'Didn't he?'

Snape's stomach crawled. Did the boy really believe the Headmaster would have wanted him to see such horrors? He clamped his jaw shut and turned away. There was a Pepper-up Potion on the shelf. He pulled out his wand and focused on summoning it.

'McGonagall,' Potter exclaimed. 'She said to see her. About exams.' He almost stumbled getting up.

Snape stared at the boy's feverish, distant look. He could not let Minerva see him in this state. The idiot boy would blurt out everything. 'Sit.'

'But she said—'

'Professor McGonagall will wait. Take this.'

The silence that filled the small room only made it easier to hear the cacophony of destruction that still rang in Snape's ears. It seemed implausible that the desk, the chairs, that every bottle and book on the shelves around him should be in the same place as he had left them, as though nothing had occurred.

'It was so fast,' Potter said. Silence again. Could Potter hear it too? 'Like he'd planned it all.' He lifted his head. 'D'you think he did?'

Snape arranged his face. 'No, Potter. The Dark Lord did not plan that.' The boy wasn't thinking straight; he was still in shock. 'Drink.'

'But—'

'Your father killed me. You saw it plainly. I suppose the Dark Lord planned that too?'

The boy's face went slack. He looked about to be sick.

'I swear, Potter, if you do not drink the potion, any mess you make, you will clear up yourself, and without your wand. Now drink!'

Potter gaped at the Pepper-up Potion in his hand as though it had just appeared there. He was clumsy in bringing it to his lips and used his sleeve to wipe his mouth. He recovered a little. 'That wasn't your memory,' he stated after a moment, gazing into his lap. 'It was that Death Eater's, wasn't it?' Then he said, carefully, 'Did you… Do you remember any of it?' The boy wisely kept his head down.

The mess of brown scruffy hair and, beneath it, the round steel-rimmed spectacles pushed out all other thoughts. Snape's voice came out as a whisper. 'I remember nothing of it.'

'The Dursleys can't lie any more. No one can. I've seen it now. And you.' Snape found the eyes turned on him. 'You don't need to lie any more.' Potter was searching him as though not really seeing him. It reminded him of the way Black had looked through him as he had lain dying on the street in Hogsmeade. 'He would have killed him anyway, wouldn't he?' said Potter. 'It wasn't him he wanted, was it? He wanted a Death Eater. Not my dad. He just used him. He was just there. He just happened to be there. It was you he wanted,' he said, and Snape steeled himself. 'He wanted you to carry on working for him.'

No question was posed; therefore Snape felt no compulsion to respond with anything beyond a forced hint of disdain. It felt uncomfortable. But there was no time to reflect as Potter ploughed on unfazed. 'But you didn't, did you?' he said. 'I mean, he thought you were, but he was wrong wasn't he? You weren't on his side then, were you?'

The boy was waiting. Surely he did not expect him to answer?

'Dumbledore said you weren't—'

A sudden knock jerked Potter's head toward the door.

Snape gathered himself and went to open it. He found Draco on the other side. 'Draco,' he said so that Potter heard.

'Sir. Can I have a word?'

'Not now.'

'But it's important.' He glanced beyond him into the room, and Snape was thankful Potter had fallen into a chair behind the door. 'Is it safe to talk?' he whispered, but absurdly loud; Potter would have had to have been deaf.

'I'm busy, Draco.' The boy plainly felt entitled to keep imposing on him his ideas for how to insinuate his father back into the Dark Lord's favour. Superiority was evidently hereditary. Snape stared until the boy got the message, then saw Draco's slow nod. He left without another word. Draco would be hard to deal with this coming year.

Snape closed the door and found Potter still wide-eyed and paler than ever.

'I didn't – I didn't mean what I said about telling Draco.'

Snape stared. 'Telling Draco what?'

The little colour there was in Potter's face vanished. He started babbling, his breaths coming in gasps, and Snape thought Potter would really be sick this time. But it became all too clear what he had meant. The dim-witted boy must have considered telling Draco the truth about his escape from the Dark Lord, that it had been him that had rescued him. A childish attempt to make him pay for what had been done to his father. 'Whom have you told?' asked Snape.

'No one. I wouldn't. I wouldn't.' Potter made a ham-fisted attempt to control his breathing. 'I haven't even told…'

'Don't worry, Potter. I know you don't have the nerve.'

'Sir?' Potter was gasping again. 'I think I'm – gonna be—'

'Drink the potion, Potter. It will settle your stomach. Drink it all down.' He watched the boy consume it in loud gulps. The colour returned to his face and his breathing calmed. 'Better?'

Potter nodded. He looked up. 'They don't think – they don't suspect – do they?'

'No, I dare say Draco is after another little chat about his father. Besides, the prime suspect is still Wormtail.' He turned to Potter's anxiety. Why was he telling the boy this?

Potter looked disgusted. 'I wouldn't want Wormtail saving me.'

Snape peered at the boy as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. It hadn't been that long ago Potter had been expressing the same revulsion at being liberated by him.

'I can – drop some hint,' said Potter, his anxiety plain again. 'So he overhears. About a Portkey. Something.'

Snape stared incredulously. 'Given that we have already established that you are at the level of Troll when it comes to lying, Potter, I don't think that will be necessary – or wise.'

It was odd that this boy had not questioned the supposed dream sent by the Dark Lord urging him to save his hated teacher. Odder still that he had listened to that urge.

Colour was creeping back into Potter's face as he looked down at the empty bottle in his hand. He seemed to be hardly breathing at all now.

'I'm – sorry I went into your memory that day.' He raised his head and, blinking, met him with defiance.

Snape stared back. Idiot boy, speaking of that now! It had been easy to see in his thick skull earlier exactly which memory it had been. The boy had simply stood there after he had confessed and handed it to him. The school lake, the public humiliation, the terror of impending loss that he should have felt that day. He felt the fury rise again. But Potter was refusing to look away. 'And what did you think of your father? Amusing man, wasn't he?'

'I didn't think it was funny.' Potter was hurt. But there was something in his insolent gaze, his refusal to avert it, that was unsettling. His hurt didn't appear to have been caused by the remark about his father, and it was only after a moment Snape realised that it was because the boy was willing him to see – to see that he meant what he had said. Snape turned his head.

His eyes fell on the Pensieve, still full. The boy made him think of that horrible day again. The revolting word James Potter had forced from his mouth before stringing him up with his own spell. And now here the man was, forever with him, torturing him still with his presence; he would never really be free of him. He had his magic. And something more insidious. He had his soul. He would carry it until his death.

But watching the man's end today seemed to make something plain. He had spent the last year trying to disentangle James' life path from his own. He shared none of the man's memories, mercifully. But the clear contrasts between their childhoods compelled him to examine his own miserable upbringing. Or at least they made it harder to carry on so successfully disregarding it.

But perhaps it didn't really matter. Perhaps defining oneself according to one's past was altogether overrated. He glanced back. Potter was gazing down again at the bottle in his hand.

If, he considered, he had been a different person fifteen years earlier, couldn't the same be said of half an hour ago?

'Do you need more?' he asked.

Potter looked up from the empty vial. He appeared much calmer than earlier. There was a quietness as he shook his head, and for an instant Snape had the sense that there was much less of the young boy about him than he was accustomed to seeing. His father had never had that difficulty; immaturity was less bother and promised more fun. But these years seemed to be defining Potter more decisively than Snape cared to think. Not that he had ever given thought to it before – nor would he again. Surely Dumbledore did?

He took the empty bottle and felt Potter's gaze as he strode to the tall glass cabinet. 'Aren't you having any?' Potter said. Snape ignored his boldness and whispered a cleaning charm on the vial. The boy provided his own answer: 'But I suppose you've seen worse.'

There was that lack of boyishness again. He could have mistaken it for brazenness, except there was a certainty in his words that would not be ignored. He focused on the glass door at Potter's reflection. But in the dim light there was just a boy. It could have been any boy without the clarity of Potter's defining features, the features he had grown to detest.

He fixed an ambiguous gleam in his eyes and turned. 'Yes, Potter. I have seen worse.' Since the Dark Lord's return, he had. The slower the death he had to witness, and the better he had known the victim in life, the more he felt something leaving him despite his best efforts to contain himself with Occlumency.

There was a heavy silence as the boy simply stared. He had a horrible feeling that his exercise in complacency was being wasted. There was empathy creeping into the boy's look, he could swear it. The boy must certainly have seen some things of his own during these years at Hogwarts. 'I think Professor McGonagall has been waiting long enough.'

Potter got to his feet unsteadily and came forward to the door.

'Potter. Do you have the reading list I gave you?'

It was obvious the boy did not. He looked around uncertainly at first, then his gaze fell on the Pensieve. 'I think I – dropped it.' He seemed transfixed – perhaps imagining having to return there to retrieve it. But of course if he had dropped it in there, it would have been expelled along with them. Snape peered at the floor and spotted it by a table leg. He scooped the parchment up and handed it across.

Potter took it. He hesitated. The red-faced defiance was seeping back. Then he opened his mouth. 'Thank you.'

He had already gone before Snape could order him to get out.

The door stared back accusingly at his glare and forced it away across the room to the gently shining Pensieve.

Because the frightening thing was that he could not be certain he would have.


End file.
